


Hard is the heart that feels no fear

by ferreuscelo



Series: Freba Series [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Homophobic Language, Inspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation, Mental Health Issues, Sexual Content, Slut Shaming, Violence, idek like lots of warnings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-06 04:13:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 61,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5402585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferreuscelo/pseuds/ferreuscelo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because we all change eventually when the right one shows up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I’m blind- Not deaf. You really don’t need to whisper.”

“I’m sorry.” The man clears his throat and goes for his question once more. “May I… have your name?” Politeness is just fine for him, but socialization isn’t. “… Please?”

It’s been three months since Reba McClane has arrived to Springfield, Missouri and decided to ‘knock around a little’ as she amusingly told her teachers before leaving. What she once thought, would have to be tested now in real life, with real people, and real situations. Most importantly, she’d have to learn how to defend herself and become an active member of society, something that not even seeing people can do it. She was lost the first week in that jungle of voices, foreign sounds, objects to touch and decisions to make, but so far she has managed, and that’s what counts, that’s a relief of sorts, the fact that she can actually survive. Or at least try.

She furrows her brow very briefly, hearing something akin to nervousness in his voice, “You’re fine, no need for that please.” But for that, she fears she’s gone and made him all the more uncomfortable, in turn offering a small smile. “Reba, nice to meet you.”

“Dolarhyde,” he answers. It’s common for the Gateway employees to call him like that, so his name is really something that’s not anyone’s business. He doesn’t answer to her politeness, because that would show kindness that will lead to a misunderstanding. And that tends to happen from time to time, since the man is not overly chatty when it comes to the rest. So speaking up would certainly raise suspicion. She is, after all, a coworker and they don’t deserve his attention at all. “Do you have the Jacobis tape?”

 _ **Oh**_. The name instantly registers with her but she works to keep her features placid, polite. The others talk about him, ‘recluse’ seems to be the word of choice, but then again Rebecca doesn’t doubt her peers say all sorts of things about her as soon as she’s out of earshot. “Yeah, I can get it for you.” She pauses, tilting her head to the side with a brief flash of a bigger smile. “Dolarhyde isn’t a name, it’s a last name. If I can only call you that, then you’re only allowed to call me McClane.”

Everybody mocks him behind his back so someone else doing it wouldn’t be surprise. Dolarhyde looks down and then away, uncomfortable. “Francis,” he answers, and it’s so hard to tell his name to a stranger, even if they work in the same building. It’s been years since he started at Gateway and he’ll never get used to freely talk to the rest of the employees. A closeted man, a loner and his silences can be awkward and even disturbing from time to time.

He stares into her eyes and there’s something off there. The man raises his hand and waves it in front of her hesitantly, only to discover that she’s blind. That’s why she’s smiling at him, because she can’t see the disgusting creature he is.

There’s the pause again and one would suspect she’s all the more worried that she’s gone and somehow upset him. “Francis,” Reba repeats with a small, thoughtful nod, trying it out on her tongue, “See, that’s a good name. Not like-, like LeRoy or something terrible.” Laughing a bit and hopefully setting him more at ease, she blinks as she feels a sudden, slight breeze against her face. “Yep, I’m blind.” It’s a simple statement, one clearly given on innumerable occasions. “I know, weird for this business, but it always makes for a good surprise.”

The woman likes his name, and he’s always been neutral about it. It was the name his mother gave him, and probably the only good thing she has ever done. Francis. The boy who couldn’t live up to anyone’s expectations. The monster and mistake. “Yes.” When she mentions her disability, Dolarhyde lowers his hand immediately, ashamed of what he did. “I’m sorry.” Even by his standards, what he did was rude, but it’s in the past.

Brow furrowed, she shakes her head with a flicker of a laugh. “You don’t need to apologize, you haven’t done anything.” Leaning forward knowingly, the woman lowers her voice with a sigh. “Everyone else here treats me like I’m made of glass or-, or stupid somehow. I’m not, I promise.”

“How do you…” He can’t say it in a way that won’t upset or offend her, but the man is curious about her job. “How can you tell when you’re done digitalizing the tapes or…?” Because not everybody works with digital media, some old fashioned people still use films. Like him.

Reba leans back then, smirking slightly. “I’m not actually working in that area. My job is done in a traditional way, truly, and I also work in the developing process for other projects which needs to be done manually. Though I do work with computers, purchasing that kind of material for blind people can be tricky, but I do have one of those.” After a moment’s pause, she smiles and shakes her head once more, “I wish it was that exciting, but it’s really not.” Up goes a hand. “I can feel my way along the film strips.”

He’s not going to treat her like glass because he doesn’t do it on a daily basis with anyone. One thing is to be shy and reserved, something entirely different is to be a gentleman. “I don’t think you’re made of glass or stupid.” Wait, he has just implied that he’s been observing her before, which isn’t the truth. “I mean from what I’m seeing so far.”

_First, sweet talking. Then what, are you going to fuck her in the office?_

The voice again. For a while now that voice has been haunting Dolarhyde’s mind with dark thoughts, things he couldn’t see before. And it’s been a revealing experience, for the picture on the attic can speak wonders about his future and what powers may be bestowed if he does as ‘He’, the entity, says. William Blake’s Dragon has been an influence, so heavy that he carries him imprinted in his skin on his back. It somehow protects him, encourages him for his Becoming.

It’s more of an admission than she would have expected of him, given the anxiety every word from him all but exudes, and Reba flashes a quick grin in return. “I guess that means I’ve made a pretty good first impression then, haven’t I? Give it a bit though, hopefully it doesn’t change.”

First impressions count, of course, but for someone like him it’s a matter of trust, which he lacks of. Dolarhyde blinks several times and returns to look at the window to calm the demon residing inside him. He’s upset and He has all the right in the world to be that way. “It’s interesting,” he answers regarding her ability, and the more he opens his mouth, the more he realizes that something’s really wrong: he’s -really- socializing, as if he was a normal person. Pathetic. “I’d like the Jacobis file, please.”

She nods thoughtfully as she’s quite proud of her technique and opens her mouth to give a reply, but pauses at his request. “Sure, just a minute.” Reba turns her back to him, reaching down to a filing cabinet and counting out the letters silently in her head and running her fingers through the Braille characters. Reaching ‘J’, she slips the basic tape out in a floppy drive and holds it over for him to take. Swiping a tongue over her lower lips, she debates with whether to speak further or not, and finally determines to state gently, “I heard you’re very good with film, I’m sure this one will turn out great.”

He tries to not stammer, but he can’t help it. “Y-Your expertise is important.”

_Shut up, Romeo. You ruin everything, always._

As always, He disapproves of his interactions, but this time he’s being more aggressive than other times. He wonders why. Things get even more uncomfortable and the man clenches his fists at both sides, his jaw is set and he frowns because he wants to leave as fast as possible. But so far she hasn’t been rude, so there’s nothing he can do, truly. “I do what I can,” he finally adds to her observation and he eyes the floppy disk. Who knows how many treasures are there waiting for him. “You do a fine job. The files I get from your department are of good quality.”

_For fuck’s sake, just shut up. You are pitiable._

He can feel warmth in his face and he wonders if he’s blushed like a stupid teenager. This is the most the man has spoken with anyone in months. But she’s easy going and that upsets him, or rather, he’s upset at himself. An awkward silence follows, and he stands there, perfectly quiet, waiting for her.

“Really?” She arches a brow, pleasantly surprised he hasn’t gone and bolted out of the room by now. Reba hadn’t expected anything more than a brief conversation, if that, with him, judging by what the others said. He always kept to himself and avoided conversation with an eagerness that seemed to equal parts repulse and inspire curiosity. “And here I’d been afraid people were too afraid to come tell the poor blind lady she’d been messing up the files for months now.” A laugh escapes from her mouth, fighting the awkwardness between them, finding herself all the more intrigued by him, and shrugs. “I like not being what people expect. I-, I think they want me to be terrible, everyone here, so they have someone to feel bad for to pass the time. It’s fun to prove them wrong.”

He can relate to that, but no one comes to tell him something’s wrong because he has a high regard from his boss, being he the brightest employee in the department. But for him, every single job he’s assigned must be perfect, and it takes him a lot to have the finished product.  “You’re good at this.” And that’s all he can say.

“High praise, given your reputation. I’ll take it.” She grins again and she wonders if he’s truly this awkward or if he hates her. The thought cycles through her mind again and she thinks of conversations with the others on the way to go make herself some tea in the break room where he’s come up. Apparently he’s handsome, which makes all the other women whisper all the more, but for something with his lip. They pretend to be too polite to bring it up but given but a moment of pressing, they’re all too eager to describe the defect in detail.

Reba knows they must say the same about her, pretend to ignore the fact that she’s very clearly blind, but gossip about how hard she must have to work to have her shoes match her blouse and the like.

It’s interesting how both can be blind in their different ways, though.

He can’t reply because he has never given himself praise for anything. He’s useless, according to the Dragon and he can’t argue with Him in that. The powerful entity has improved his life since the moment he met him and has some guide to point to him in the right direction.

Reba tilts her head to the side, as if in thought, and then lightly reaches a hand out. “May I touch your face? It helps me understand what I obviously can’t, you know, see.”

Dolarhyde steps backwards, avoiding the contact with the small palm that reaches towards him. His mouth opens and closes as if he wanted to say something and he bites his lips to not let out anything stupid. “Why is my appearance important?”

_Because she wants to see how disgusting you are, stupid._

“Because it’s part of you,” She states simply, and she only now considers the tiny speech impediment caused by his lip, “And it helps me know people, try and form them in my mind.” She decides to hold her hand out a moment longer, give him another chance. “Just because I can’t see it, doesn’t mean that I don’t want to at least try.”

He stands there, frozen, unable to coordinate any word before he can take a seat to sit close to her and take her hand to guide it over his face. It burns. The palm is soft and warm but the sensation of anyone recognizing his features hurts. He tries to relax, allow the woman to explore him like some rare species, extremely tense. “What do you see, then?” he asks, curious, and worried about his ugliness as well.

_Stupid diva, she’s going to vomit after she touches you._

Sitting silently, she swipes a tongue over her lower lip, certain that she’s freaked him out beyond hope of return. However, just as she moves to retreat her hand, he takes it. The woman blinks, caught off guard, and very nearly flinches, but allows her smile to relax.

“Well,” She states matter of factly, shifting her jaw in concentration, “I can tell you’re terribly nervous, but I think I would be too if some random lady in the office went and asked to feel all over my face. I can feel you tensing up.” It occurs to her that perhaps she’s been rude with that, drawn attention to something Dolarhyde’s already nervous about, and works swiftly to amend it. “All the ladies here think you’re very handsome, all that sort of dark, mysterious bullshit. I think you are too, from what I can see. Well, not the cliches, anyway, I can’t tell that much.”  Fingers very carefully brush over his cheek, her mind mapping over the arch of his cheekbones, and she lightly touches the corner of his lip with a smile. “I think you should let random coworkers touch your face more often, if anything.”

When she reaches his lips the man panics and opens his eyes with fear, but seeing her charming expression, he can’t say no. “You read too much,” he states in a low voice, the only one he can muster, almost a whisper.

She bursts into a quick pelt of laughter at that, shaking her head, “I haven’t read anything for a very long time. I listen, but read? Not so much.”

Reba’s finger is so close to his mouth, he could easily chop it with his teeth. He wonders show her blood tastes, how loud she’d scream to get to ‘really’ know the beast within. “I don’t care what they say about me. I’m not handsome.” Never been, never will. Even if many women have tried to get him to their beds.

_Whores, whores everywhere._

It’s interesting though, that he lost his virginity with a prostitute back in Afghanistan. It was easy to find candidates then because money makes the world go around.

Her digits pause their careful tracing as she hears how quiet his already soft voice has gotten. Reba bites the inside of her lip, recognizing how close she is to his disfigurement, what the other ladies call it, and determines it’s not her place to venture any further. He was clearly nervous as it was already and why add to what self-consciousness he already felt?  “You know what it is people say, don’t you? That we’re so used to how we look, we forget how beautiful we are. Every inch of us is so commonplace we forget it’s lovely. Strangers can see it even when we can’t.” When the tips of her fingers reach his lips, she withdraws her hand with a smile. “I can see you, sort of, anyway. Just in my head.” Reba leans back fully now, finding herself strangely moved by the brief experience. He didn’t allow anyone else near him, Dolarhyde, but he had allowed her closer.

“No.” The man’s mouth is so close that he slightly wets her fingertip and he struggles to not suck it, gently bite it because he’s sure he’s going to moan. So this is pleasure, this is connection. “I don’t like to be touched. This…is an exception because you can’t see me.”

“Thank you.” A gentle nod.

Her babbling about being beautiful bounces on him like a ball against a wall. Is she telling him that he’s beautiful? Lies, pure lies just to be polite. But she tried to convince him, and that’s the closest to kindness he’s ever received. He sighs deeply and looks down at her hands, perhaps wanting those fingers to travel over his skin. “You’re welcome.” He has granted her a great gift, and she’s grateful, just the way she ought to be.

“Is it alright if I call you D? Consider it a concession if you don’t like people using your first name.” Reba smiles politely, brushing loose hair over her shoulder and instinctively adds one final question, hoping he hasn’t moved out of earshot.

When he hears his nickname, he frowns, because that’s the way people call him behind his back. “It’s ok,” he answers, scratching his short hair. It’s truly okay, they won’t talk ever again. She’ll forget him soon. There are many more interesting people than him in the building.

The hesitance in his voice doesn’t unnoticed by the woman. “What would you like me to call you?”

To begin with, he’d like her to call him, to talk with him even if he doesn’t have the slightest idea of what they would talk about. “D is fine.” It’s not, but ‘Francis’ would sound even weirder because it involves closeness and he’s far from wanting it. Besides, she’ll avoid him just as much as he’ll do with her. He doesn’t have the time to deal with this kind of situation.

Her hand retreats and his cheek grows cold again.

“I should go,” he adds, picking up the disk from her hands. His fingers brush against hers and he doesn’t pull back. “Thank you for this.”

She pauses, because the simple touch is almost electric. She makes certain he’s gotten a hold of the tape. “Don’t mention it! Let me know how it turns out.”

No further words are spoken. Nothing of ‘see you’ or ‘pleased to meet you’ because he doesn’t know how to act in these social mini gatherings nor he cares about them. Dolarhyde returns to his cubicle and inserts the file on the USB socket to begin with the edition. There’s a smiling family and a woman is filming the children coloring their drawings in the living-room, because it’s a feminine voice that calls them ‘sweetie’ and ‘darling’ to the man, who evidently is her husband. His interest peaks when the man takes the camera and begins to film. There’s a flash of blonde hair and laughter, and her voice is sweet. And when the moment comes and she’s on full display with her green intense eyes, the man pauses the video and stares at the figure on the screen. Dolarhyde can’t truly concentrate at what he’s doing. He sees the blonde and imagines her in her bed, but he can’t touch her. For some reason, he can’t imagine all the things he wants to do with her and that’s utterly unnerving. From time to time he spaces out remembering the black woman’s mouth moving, talking to him and those dead eyes staring at him as if she could see him.

Back in the darkroom, Reba slowly moves her fingers, remembering the planes and arches of his face, before turning to her work. Still, she feels something, and she isn’t sure if it’s pity or curiosity.

But Reba knows what it’s like to be the recipient of the former and hates it and for that brushes it off as best she can.

She makes her way to the break room when her stomach rumbles at its usual time, feet tracing their familiar path. Hidden behind a column at the cafeteria, he observes her from the distance like a creepy creature in the shadow, as he has done with every woman that crossed his path and he never had the guts talk with. Grabbing a quick cup of tea, she makes her way back to her desk, carefully balancing the steaming water. The man bites his lower lip as she returns to her department, her full lips against the cup as she drinks, the curves of her back, the way she moves. He stares at her for a moment before shaking his head and returning to his spot.

Reba moves quickly, expecting a torrent of questions about none other than poor Francis Dolarhyde, who so very clearly wished to be left alone and very clearly would never be.

She sighs, sitting down and running a hand through her hair. She’s half tempted to apologize, knowing full well her questions of him will result in a flurry of questions from others directed towards him. Groaning, Reba leans forward and sets her forehead down on her desk. She could email him, maybe, instead of talking to him. Might make it easier for him, typing instead of face to face. Yes, she could work up the courage for that.

The rest of the day passes without incident and she never quite works up the courage to send off the email. After all, how exactly did one word, ‘sorry you talked to me’ without making an already uncomfortable situation all the more painfully awkward. But despite that, Reba feels slightly proud of herself, being able to coax out something even vaguely akin to a conversation out of him, and it’s enough to keep a small smile playing at the corner of her lips as she works.

In the solitude of his office, Dolarhyde decides to leave the building for a moment to check e-mails on his phone just to see if Springers have uploaded another picture on their Facebook. Idiots, leaving their profile public for everyone to see. There are five men in the same area, smoking of course and he avoids them like the plague, as he usually does until…

“She’s hot, huh?”

The man frowns and continues moving his fingers over the touch screen.

“Hey, Dolarhyde. You gonna ask her out?”

“No.” He’s short with his answers, especially on this occasion in which he realizes that everybody was looking at him chatting with a woman, something that never happens. So embarrassing. He shouldn’t have stayed, just treat her like any other colleague and move on.

_I told you it was a mistake, imbecile._

When she’s finally free to leave, McClane steps out into the frigid air and sighs, lightly holding up a hand. She can feel flecks of ice fall swiftly onto her hand and Reba curses under her breath. That’ll mean a late bus, which means being stuck in the cold until it finally arrives. It’s quite late and there’s a snow storm outside, which will make it difficult to move. Dolarhyde makes his way to the main entrance of the building and there, standing, the woman awaits, probably for the storm to calm down. The man sighs softly and approaches her. Several seconds later, he decides to open his mouth. “It’s very dangerous outside. Would you… like me to drive you home?”

She bundles all the tighter beneath her jacket, flinching at a sudden voice. Reba blinks, then smiles upon recognizing it. “Sorry-, didn’t hear you coming up.”

He’s very silent, something he learned from wandering around houses in the night, keeping his presence unnoticed, so it’s not strange that the woman didn’t hear him as he approached.

She pauses, caught off guard by the offer, but nods with a sigh of embarrassed relief. “Are you certain? I-, I don’t want you to have to drive out of your way, not when it’s snowing this much, but it’s a really kind offer of you, D.” Another small, genuine smile to set him at ease.

Disarmed with her smile, Dolarhyde stares at the pearly white teeth shown to him. Such an exquisite set of them. “It’s no problem at all. Come,” he suggests, taking her arm and wrapping it around his own. It’s the second contact they share, but it’s fine because there are layers of clothes in between. It’s safe.

She blinks as he takes her arm in his own, clutching the handle of her cane a bit looser as he guides her. The man gently guides her to the van, informing her of the obstacles in the middle. It’s sweet of him, warning her about the building snowdrifts and patches of ice, and Reba glances down to hide a smile.  It’s a shy smile, moreso than a polite one and she’s suddenly aware of the fact that there’s a fairly good chance she’s blushing. “Only if you’re sure,” She reiterates one last time, glancing up to him with clouded eyes. He is tall, judging by how much higher his voice seemed than most, and he seems to have to lean down a bit to guide her.

There are some coworkers at the parking lot watching them curiously, obviously gossiping already and whispering with each other about the atypical scene.

He’s being a gentleman, and he generally has the basic interaction with others, making this a strange situation. He feels strangely more comfortable now than when they were talking and Dolarhyde even rests a palm on her back as they reach the vehicle to guide her in. He wonders how that back would feel in the nude and him, tracing her spine with his fingertips. She’s an object for him, he ought to have that clear, and everything he’s experiencing is out of wanting. Bodily needs. This is just a favor, nothing else.

“Thanks,” She nods appreciatively, grateful for his hand to help her up into the vehicle, which seems to be a van from the shapes her fingers can trace over the metallic surface. She brushes a soft interior and climbs in, hands grasping the seat as she settles in. It occurs to her that he had said he didn’t like being touched, but he had willingly helped her, and for her to bring it up would be intolerably rude. She decides, instead, to simply enjoy what seemed to be a little miracle.

The heater’s on and slowly, the van gets warm. He waits until the engine’s good enough to start driving because it’s close to frozen and they need some time until they’re good to go. An awkward silence is in the middle until he decides to break it. “I hope your house is warm when you get there.”

Leaning forward into the heat, the woman shivers and bundles under her coat. “That’d be nice, but I doubt it. I’ll just make some tea until the heat kicks on. And, you know, keep my jacket on, and add a nice scarf or two.”

Dolarhyde sees her shivering and frowns at the heater, as if he was hurrying it to work faster but as much as he wants to, the cold is so extreme that nothing will make it get warm fast enough. “Your house must be large, then,” he observes and realizes that he’s doing it, interrogating her as if she was a future victim.

She laughs at that, scrunching her nose as she instantly shakes her head, clearly amused by the mere idea. “Oh god, no. Trust me, you’re not dropping me off at a mansion. I just have a really shitty heater, that’s all.”  Reba grins and offer a quick pelt of laughter, simply very comfortable. “Seriously, thank you again. I’ve-, I’ve gotten rides from some of the others when the weather’s bad, or the bus is late, and-” The smile begins to fade and she glances down, jaw setting. “Let’s just say some of our male coworkers think a ride home is an invitation for something else. So thank you, it’s-, it’s really kind of you, this.”

“Men can be pigs,” he answers and it’s a laugh that he’d say something like that when in his retrograde mind it’s perfectly fine to rape a dead corpse, but in his book, he’s helping them, ‘transforming’ them and in the meantime, his deeds are welcomed by the Dragon who encourages him. And pleasing Him is all he needs.

“Yeah, they can be.” She shifts her weight slightly in the seat, lips pursing together briefly before she shakes off countless memories of innuendos, words that would mean one thing but imply the sort of thing that churns the anger in her. “But not all of them, anyway, you’re not.”

She seems to be freezing and the man doesn’t hesitate when he takes off his thick coat off. “Excuse me.” The heavy garment is placed over her shoulders to warm her up, the one he uses in the night when he visits the houses to watch from the distance. It’s like taking care of a baby and the man is strangely pleased to make her feel better. Something no one ever did with him in his life save for Queen Mother and that was long, long ago. Even she betrayed him.

But this woman in his car, she looks incapable of harming anyone.

Reba’s so surprised by the unexpected weight of his jacket she seems to nearly sink beneath it, blinking in confusion before her hands carefully reach out to fold it around her. It smells good, distinctly masculine, and God, is it warm. A shy grin slowly creeps into her features and she offers a bashful, “Thanks,” embarrassed that she’d been shivering enough for him to notice. It’s nice, talking to him like this. People usually assume she’s dear for some reason, speaking appallingly loudly towards her, but Dolarhyde speaks quietly, gently in that deep voice of his, and it’s a welcomed change.

Her cheeks go slightly puffy as she smiles and my, has he seen a smile as beautiful as hers? The man observes her mouth as she speaks and his lips part, as if he was ready to go forth and kiss her but of course, that would be incredibly stupid. That atrocity on his mouth is in the middle and he never forgets it. Never. Not even with the prostitutes who were paid for him to fuck.

There’s laughter from a group of people not too far away that catches their attention. For a paranoid subject like him, it can only mean one thing: mockery. She runs her tongue over her lower lip before looking to him almost apologetically. “We both know people will talk, because they haven’t got anything better to talk about, and I’m sorry for that. I know you don’t like it.”

“I’m used to people talking about me.” Dolarhyde looks at the front and his defined profile is lighted by the lights of a car nearby. He’s handsome, very much so, even with his scar and she’s not the woman who’s been interested on him. But she’s the first one he decides to show some kindness. He must have done something right. “They will bad mouth you for talking to me and I’m sorry.” He’s obviously omitting the ‘maybe you shouldn’t talk to me again’ part but he can’t bring himself to say it.

Her smile fades as her gaze snaps up, brow furrowing. “You don’t need-, I don’t want you to apologize. If anything, it should be me saying sorry. I-, I don’t mind if people talk behind my back. They already do, anyway, and I don’t care if they see us talking to each other.” She purses her lips together in thought. “I like talking to you. You don’t treat me like... like I’m stupid or-, or helpless.” There’s a quiet determination sinking into her words now and she nods firmly. “I’m not either of those, D.”

In an epiphany, he comes to realize about something. He likes her voice. It’s soft but not childish, it’s feminine but not chirpy nor manly. It’s perfect, truly and he’s just exchanged only two words with her. Ergo, he likes talking with her.

It’s bizarre.

Appreciation, even if it comes from what she sees from one version of himself is taken well. First person in a long, long time that says nice things and has the courage of seeing beyond the cold surface. Dolarhyde doesn’t smile but feels strange inside, as if he was merely a viewer of this situation. But it’s warm, feels warm.

The man looks away, his jaw set because he knows this is going to be a bother for both. “Don’t listen to them.” It’s the sanest advice he can give her and like with everything else, he doesn’t have much to say. He’s not used to having conversations with other people and he is very measured in what he says, in the thoughts and opinions he gives because he doesn’t want people to target him as a lunatic, even if some attitudes come like that. And she’s not someone to pity, he knows that now because she has the guts to talk to him.

“I never do,” She replies firmly, speaking as it as if some sort of mantra. And it’s more or less become that, truthfully. She can hear the whispers, the curiosity in commonplace questions, and over the year she’s learned to steel herself to them. Jaw set, head held high.

“You are… clever,” he states, almost muttering.

_Oh, you’re a great conversationalist. Shut up._

He lowers his head in shame, knowing that he’s making a fool of himself and the Dragon has seen it. He knows everything.

“Thank you,” She glances down and Reba’s surprised to feel a small blush creep onto her features, “I try to be.” It’s not often someone comments on something…something intangible about her. Something deeper than the pretty features she knows she possesses. “I think you must be, too. People who-, who choose their words carefully generally are. You don’t say anything you don’t mean. It’s a nice change.”

Oh, if he could only say everything he wants. Dolarhyde would be behind bars in two seconds and killed in three. But lying to her keeps him sane in some fucked up way, keeps the bubble of peace intact and that’s relaxing now. Something good. She brought something good the moment they started talking, even if he’s still uneasy at the feeling. “I don’t like to talk just because the air is free,” he muses as the steering wheel moves to turn around the corner of the street.

She glances away as the van moves, wondering if she’s gone and accidentally insulted him, drawn attention to something the peculiar man is clearly already aware of.

“I think…” Dolarhyde leans closer, and he can smell her perfume, flowery but not strong enough to stuff his nose. He opens the gloves box and grins, taking out a small bottle. The man takes one of her hands and prods the bottle against her fingertips for her to hold it. His palms are almost hot, hers are icy. “A drink of this will keep you warm. It’s whiskey.”

Her fingers feel very nearly dwarfed by his, and a brow arches as they wrap around glass. “Whiskey?” Unseeing eyes widen and Reba laughs in sheer disbelief, “Oh my god, are you serious?”

“Of course I am.” The man watches her mouth curl around the bottle and his lips part, imagining how good it would feel her sucking his cock. He fights back anything that may come from his throat and with half lidded eyes he follows the wet lips as she licks them after coughing and he frowns, fighting back an erection. He’s a fucking animal, turned on by the first woman who considers him worth of her attention but damn, it’s impossible for him to ignore his desire.

She sniffs the whiskey carefully, beaming now, and takes a sip. A small cough follows and she grins at him, pressing the corner of her wrist over her mouth. “What else did you have in here, D? I can’t even remember the last time I had whiskey, much less out of someone’s glovebox. Thank you.”

“Not much.” A flashlight, tape to cover their victim’s mouth if required and that’s it. The heater begins to fill the van and it starts moving. “I need your address,” he requests, wanting to finish this short trip filled with way too much socialization.

 “I hope it isn’t much out of your way,” She concedes, looking faintly guilty now, “Is it still snowing a lot? It’s normally nice, the snow, just not when I want to get home.”

“It’s fine.” She’s at the opposite direction of his way back home but he offered and that’s it, no need to regret it now. Too many questions though, and the man wishes she could shut up but it’s too late to be a dick now. She is seeing his ‘gentleman’ side and popping the bubble would only get him in trouble. Something he does not pursue right night. “It’s a heavy snow and buses take a lot to pick up people. You should get someone to give you a ride every day and I’m sure you have a lot of candidates for that.” Being a beautiful woman, despite her disability is helpful in that sense.

Reba flushes again, biting the inside of her lip and turning her head towards her shoes to hide it. “No, not-, not really, trust me. And-, and you couldn’t pay me to ride home with most that offer.” Her lip briefly curls in disgust before her features soften, mouth curving up in the shadow of a smile. “Besides, I’m sure you have plenty of women who’d love for you to give them a ride anywhere.”

“No.” He has asked one of them just once and she refused him because she said she was dating Roger, another coworker. Later on, when he faced him, he told Dolarhyde it was all a lie to let him down politely. Politely, my ass, he thought that time and decided that the girl would have to go. And since she wasn’t one of the Selected Ones, she wasn’t worth his treatment but would have another kind. That’s how one morning the walls were wallpapered with leaked photographs of her fucking the accountant from the third floor in his office (photos that said accountant took). She couldn’t hold her shame and quit but she always suspected him. Whatever, she’s gone. “I’m not interested in other women.”

Hold it.

_You piece of shit, SHUT THE FUCK UP!_

Just when she thought she couldn’t encounter a single surprise more after what already had proved to be a strange day, Dolarhyde goes and says that. Reba blinks, sitting up a bit in her shock, and her cheeks go dark as she’s certain she’s misheard, or misunderstood, or-

Did he mean to imply-?

Dolarhyde’s hands tremble lightly on the wheel and tries to articulate a word after that, because he’s just admitted that he’s interested in her. And that’s catastrophic because he faces two scenarios. Rejection again, which wouldn’t be too much but he said he likes her, indirectly. And if she says ‘yes’ in a metaphorical way he’s fucked. Because he’ll never understand that kind of relationship with any human, and it sure as hell won’t work with her. He hasn’t been made to be with someone else. He was born alone and miserable and so he’ll end his days.

_You won’t if you could put that brain in use and listen to me._

Normally it’s the sort of thing to make her skin crawl, when men say such as that, but it’s different with him. It’s a quiet statement, free of the normal confidence or assurance, and if it means what she thinks it does, Reba finds she’s alright with it. Is contented by it, even, and she finds herself suddenly very warm and it’s more than just the jacket and whiskey and heat flooding through the van. Reba coughs, biting the corner of her lip before glancing over to him. “Do you live by yourself? I-, I mean, pets or anything? I’m not keeping you from some poor cat or dog that can’t wait for you to get home, am I?”

He has always tried to avoid talking about himself but she asks and he hates it but cannot prevent it. “Alone.” His answers are short and precise, like an interview he saw once of Truman Capote talking about sex and love. Funny guy, pity he was a fag.

She ventures another small sip of the whiskey, closing her eyes contentedly as another wave of warmth floods over her. “Do you like coffee?” It’s an abrupt question but she says it so assuredly that there has to be a reason for it.

Dolarhyde stops at a red light, the streets are deserted and the snow simply covers everything. “Yes.” He sees where this is going and he frowns at the prospect. He doesn’t want to socialize but he has agreed on many things tonight and he can’t go back now. “I like it black.”

His answers grow shorter and she shifts her weight in the seat, realizing she’s probably been speaking incessantly, nervously. She brushes off the front of her blouse and tucks herself a bit more into his jacket. The scent of it hits her nose again and she resists tucking her face into the side, wanting to breathe it in deep. “Let me get you coffee sometime, to say thanks,” Reba finally ventures, keeping her voice soft and offering up a hopeful smile, “There’s a nice place a few blocks from work or-, if you don’t want to,” And she finds she hopes he wants to, more than just out of courtesy.

“Yes, coffee,” he answers, trying to divert the topic somewhere else. “Coffee,” he repeats, absolutely out of his mind, wanting to fill the air with something else.

“I can bring you back something on my lunch break. The coffee at work tastes like watery depression, I can’t stand it.” The woman’s determined.

There’s another challenge, to go out with her, and even if it’s just a coffee it’s a date of sorts. And he’ll fuck it up, like everything. A social engagement, this is a nightmare. “We’ll see.” It’s a neutral reply. It’s better than nothing. Leaves her with hopes he’ll soon crash and it’s a polite way to decline at the same time. If something he’s learned, is how to say 'no’ in different ways. Especially in social matters.

His reply is exactly the sort of thing she’s come to expect from him, hopelessly vaguely and impossibly cautious, but she finds herself holding back a smile all the same. He sounds nervous and she wonders if she sounds nervous, if she is nervous, or it’s just the whiskey. “I can work with ‘we’ll see’.” And before she quite knows what she’s saying, she adds, “And your jacket smells really good.”

“Thank you.” They are one block away from her house. There’s nothing more in the world the man wants other than take his coat off her and bite her neck and shoulder. Lick her blood and perhaps fuck her in the van. On the other side, he knows he’d fuck the only positive thing he has experienced for years now. And it’s nice to be appreciated from time to time, even a monster like him knows this.

He pulls over and doesn’t intend to remove his jacket off her. The van comes to a slow halt and despite her exhaustion, Reba finds she wishes she had a few more minutes, that perhaps her townhouse was just a few more blocks away. The man looks at her and she stopped shivering, her cheeks must be warm, just like the rest of her entire body. “We’re here,” he says softly, approaching the woman.

He’s the strangest thing she’s ever encountered, Francis Dolarhyde who doesn’t like sugar in his coffee, but strange is different and different is good. She nods and moves to undo the seatbelt, fingers then reaching down to clasp around the handles of her purse. “Seriously, I’d have been stuck at the bus stop for ages if you hadn’t offered, thanks again. I appreciate it.” Slipping the jacket off her shoulders and carefully folding it in her lap, Reba moves to open the van door but pauses.

If it’s snowing or pouring or if there’s a hurricane around them, that’s completely irrelevant in that precise moment. The world has been reduced to the four metal walls of his van and the woman sitting on the copilot’s seat. She’s patient, she’s pushing his buttons, all of his triggers but it doesn’t hurt much. She pushes wall after wall wanting to reach the core and she’ll never do it but she tries and it’s an interesting feeling. Someone truly curious about him? It has to be a miracle, and he doesn’t believe in those. But this must be the closest to one.

“It’s okay.” He never says ‘you’re welcome’ because in doing so he’d be offering the other a way to enter into the intimacy of his world in some fashion. Why? Because it opens a door for future interactions. Dolarhyde is a radical hermit and the fact that this woman is making him think of her in different ways is quite a happening in the man’s life. She could have frozen waiting for the bus, she could have gotten injured by the snow, yes, and he helped her.

_Prince Charming to the rescue. Can you see how absurd you are?_

“May I touch your face again for a moment? I know you don’t like it, so I, I want to ask. If you’d prefer I don’t, I understand.”

Dolarhyde’s eyes are cast down, just like when he used to receive scolding by his grandmother but this is way different. And when she asks to touch him once more, he’s tempted to say no but, who are we kidding, he wants to feel her again. This time, he’s not thinking about biting her fingers but to actually suck them so she can feel his tongue, so eager to run all over her body. If he tries it, he’s going to ruin it. “You may.”

She’s still for a moment, taking in his answer with no small amount of surprise, and considers whether or not to do this. She pities him, Francis Dolarhyde, but she loathes pity and for that, she works to treat him as earnestly as she would anyone else. But still, Reba thinks of his pause, how he’s certain he’s ugly, how he’s alone, how he won’t let anyone touch him, how-

Her finger raise to his lips and she holds them there for a moment, then gently reaches her hand out towards him. She misjudges at first, carefully pressing against his shoulder, then moves upwards to press her fingers against the arch of his cheekbone. They trail downwards and when she reaches the corner of his lips, her fingers ghost towards the center of his mouth. They rest against the scar marring what would otherwise be such a handsome face, according to the others at work, who sigh disappointedly after mention of it.

He can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t think or speak. But her fingers move and he’s dead and alive at the same time. His lips part, as if he was at about to lean forward and close his lips against hers. Dolarhyde’s eyelids fall and he swallows hard, his Adam’s Apple bobbing up and down at the action. What are just seconds turn into hours and time truly stops as he doesn’t know how to respond, how to act in this situation, how to practically live.

He’s so very still at first that she’s certain she’s caused offense. She’s being horrifically forward, of course, and normally she’d never do something like this, but she wants to. She needs to, somehow, needs to let him know she doesn’t think him ugly or distant or whatever it is the others whisper about him secretly.

_Yes, let him know._

He leans into her touch just as Reba pulls her hand away. The warmth of his face, of his breath against her fingertips still settles in her skin. He’s warm, despite the chill he gives off both in word and deed, and she very nearly turns to leave, horrifically embarrassed.

In a moment of stupidity or bravery, he raises his hand to mimic her gesture before she can escape, the difference being that his digits slightly tremble. A hand touches her then and she freezes. She can feel the tremble in the tips of his fingers and for someone that admits to be wary of contact, clearly avoids it whenever possible, Dolarhyde is  _gentle_. He rests his fingertips over her brow first and travels down her temples to her cheek, confirming that they are very, very warm. Her ebony skin feels velvety and he reaches down at last to run his thumb above her full lips softly.

She tries to think of the last time someone touched her like this. Not to try and stir up desire in her, or fulfill their own desire, but simply to touch her. She can think of nothing and before she knows what she’s doing, Reba’s eyes flutter shut and she leans forward. His hands are large, strong but God, he’s so impossibly careful, tender. He’s close enough now that she can feel his breath on her lips, his fingers light against her neck, and she thinks he’s going to kiss her.

She wants him to kiss her.

It’s maddening, someone’s pushing him from behind and he’s floating. He’s naked, his mask is slightly off and the sensuality of the moment is something he never imagined he’d ever experience in his life, full of hardships and torments. Closer and closer he goes, and his fingers move down to her neck to feel her pulse with feather-like touches. He can feel her breath close to his face. The man tilts his face and looks down at her lips before closing them again and remain there, inches away from her mouth.

_She’s making you weak._

Struggling to let go, he truly wishes he couldn’t and his jaw goes tight. The moment passes but he remains in the same position, inhaling in her flowery scent and feeling the contact of their skins so close.

“Thank you.” His hand retreats then and Reba wants to look away, turn her head towards some other darkness, but she forces herself not to flinch. Not now.

There’s something in between that has caught both off guard, something that has crossed the air and brought two souls together into an uncanny meeting of sorts. “Good night,” he finally mutters, almost in a whisper and looks down. He has ruined it, and the Dragon knew this would happen. He’s such a fool.

“Goodnight, Francis,” she answers quietly, gathering her purse and gently setting his coat aside. She can barely breathe, can’t think but for her pounding heart, and she leans forward again because she has to. It’s clumsy, and she mostly misses, but all the same her lips find the corner of his mouth. They linger there, and she memorizes the feel of him, before tearing herself away.

He’s left there, breathing again after holding it for such a long time, and his heartbeats are still fast, one would say like a hummingbird’s or close to it. Because for Dolarhyde there’s nothing more forbidden than this kind of thing, this closeness and the fear of entering someone’s life. Not to mention that it sickens Him.

The van’s door opens and her hands shake, pulse thundering, “I think you’re very handsome.” And with that, Reba McClane quickly makes her way into her house, all but in shock but warm.

The man waits until she’s inside and she has turned on one light in her living-room before he can turn around and drive back home, where his solitary and cold house awaits for him. And the building is not the only thing that’s longing for his arrival.

It was intimate. It was the most intimate thing she’s ever known. She’s not a virgin, boredom and pressure to be normal in college assured that, but no one in all her years has touched her simply to touch her. To feel her skin beneath their fingertips, to feel her. It’s the last thing she thinks of as she drifts of to sleep, the tremble in Francis Dolarhyde’s fingertips.

The Dolarhyde manor’s all silent and incredibly so, He is as well. The man makes his way upstairs stepping on the dark wooden stairs that lead to the main bedroom. He pushes his door open and heads straight to the bathroom to brush his teeth and look at the deformed version of his face in the broken mirror. He pauses with his toothbrush in his mouth and stares into his eyes. ‘I think you’re very handsome’. The man looks down and washes his mouth before getting in bed.

His hand goes to his cheek where her fingers laid minutes ago and move down to his chest and belly. She’s precious and must be protected. She’s bewitched him and his hand moves lower until it curls around his erection. Strangely so, he doesn’t think of her nude but of her lips. Kissing him, just that, as simple and innocent like that. But his hand moves up and down pumping his member and he arches his back, memorizing the sensation of skin against skin, of the slight wetness of her lips against the corner of his mouth. He should have kissed her, yet another failed attempt to be a normal man. And what’s even stranger is that the Dragon is asleep, that he’s not torturing him for what he has done and it’s a relief. Could it be that it’s just him the one who can silence him? Nonsense. He’s way more powerful than what he gives him credit for.

A soft sound escapes his throat as he reaches his climax and closes his eyes, his mouth forming a single word with difficulty, for he can’t control his brain from functioning correctly.

One name, that is all.


	2. Chapter 2

As the door shuts behind her, the woman flicks the lights on and hears his van pull away. Reba stands completely still for a moment, then grins and anxiously presses her fingers to her fact when he had touched her, where the weight of his gentle hands still linger. This isn’t like her, not at all, and she’s confused and giddy and had she actually kissed him? Her cheeks flush as she thinks of how clumsily she kissed him. God, it must have been an awful kiss, if it could even be considered that and not a sudden, unexpected collision of faces. She slips off her cheap flats and runs a hand through her hair, going upstairs to shower and crawl into bed. Reba tries to think of other things, to prepare a mental checklist of things to finish at work tomorrow, but her mind perpetually wanders back to his breath against her lips. The closeness of it.

It was intimate. It was the most intimate thing she’s ever known. She’s not a virgin, boredom and pressure to be normal in college assured that, but no one in all her years has touched her simply to touch her. To feel her skin beneath their fingertips, to feel her. It’s the last thing she thinks of as she drifts of to sleep, the tremble in Francis Dolarhyde’s fingertips.

When she walks into work the next morning, Reba finds the giddiness has faded into something like nervousness. She tries to brush it off, chides herself for being childish by caring so much damn.

Dolarhyde sees her very early in the morning as she enters Gateway and a lump forms in his throat as he remains perfectly still until she goes away, his eyes fixed on her small figure. Good thing she didn’t smell him today. He applied more aftershave than usual and cologne, dressed nicely to the point that some of his coworkers raised an eyebrow at this. As if she could see him. All of this is so utterly ridiculous.

Settling into her desk, she wonders if he’ll come back, say anything or if he’ll retreat into the distant shell she’d encountered yesterday morning. Burying herself in work, despite her best attempts to ward off any consideration of him, she finds she hopes he comes back, says something of last night.

Maybe even lets her take him for coffee.

It’s the same old office and nothing has changed, though for him, the world seems particularly odd today. He and begins with the edition of a popular TV show that consumes all his attention, which is positive because if he occupies his mind with something else, the outcome won’t be as good as he expects. And he has a reputation to maintain. A professional one, anyways.

Reba actively avoids going to the breakroom, knowing full well that someone must have seen them leave together last night. It’s common knowledge that she picks up rides when the weather is bad, or when the bus comes late, and in turn she doubts there’s any whispers that perhaps he offered her more than a ride home. But, all the same, she’s loathed to try and answer the sly questions she knows will await her from the other girls in the office and instead clings to her desk. It very nearly becomes a game, how much can she get accomplished without having to move from the little island her desk and cabinet provides, and it helps distract her from thinking. Remembering. Yet, the memories still creep up and each time she focuses all the more on her work, on anything but the cause of the blush that’s seemed to color her skin all morning.

He didn’t sleep well last night (for obvious reasons) and his need for caffeine strikes. He remembers bits of their conversation. Bits, because he couldn’t get a real hold of what was going on, his mind was fuzzy and the heat, her heat, was intoxicating. He starts walking, pauses, continues walking and pauses once more. He has to be a man, face her with the consequences. It’s impossible for him to let go a woman who kissed him without him having to pay her. He picks two cappuccinos and makes his way to the darkroom, trying to not trip on anyone because he’s stiff as a plank. There she is, her wavy hair over her shoulders, her wonderful hands typing on the Braille keyboard. He watches as her fingertips touch the small dots on the keys and the words on the screen are perfectly understandable, as if she could actually see. The man clears his throat and leaves the cup over the desk, away from her hand just in case she jumps at his voice. “Good morning.”

Head snaps up from her keyboard. She recognizes him instantly. “Morning,” Reba smiles and works to not make it too much of a smile, to try and keep it polite, professional, “Glad to know you must have made it home alright. The news said there was a lot of snow, I was worried about you.” Reba had meant it kindly, as a gesture of appreciation, but given the circumstances she fidgets in her seat a bit. Hands move to nervously play with a loose strand of hair, and the smiles relaxes somewhat. “I hope it didn’t take you all that long to get home.”

“I made it home alright.” It was snowing lots but he managed to make it without problems, thankfully the van has new wheels he purchased last week. The man picks a chair nearby and sits beside her. His eyes immediately go to her mouth, that beautiful full mouth that touched him in such a way last night that he couldn’t stop thinking about it. “I brought you cappuccino,” he says, pushing the cup closer to her hand until it touches the tip of her fingers. “It’s hot.”

Blinking in surprise, she’s caught off guard by his gesture, and it distantly occurs to her that no matter how well she gets to know him, no matter how much of he him allows her to see, Reba will never be able to predict him. “Thank you,” She works to keep from grinning, but her features beam all the same. It’s a simple thing, but it’s gentle and kind.

The warmth seeps through her palms and she takes a quick sip, testing the heat of it. It’s still hot, just as he promised, but it’s delicious and the caffeine she’s sorely needed all morning. There’s something extraordinary in her touch, something that makes the man be enchanted and the entity trying to get a grasp of him furious at the same time. Parts of the same moon divided by this woman who has definitely cracked his body with her existence. Strange Reba McClane. Intriguing, delightful, unreachable. But he won’t show weakness for her.

_You are already doing it._

The others in the office have said he flinches if anyone even comes close, and once she heard some of the assholes in the third floor tried to play a game and see how close they could get to him without him shuffling off. It had been cruel, that, and Reba had snapped back irritably when she’d heard of it. They eventually stopped; no doubt embarrassed to be shamed by a blind woman.

Her tongue flicks over her lips and the corner of her wrist dabs the foam away from her mouth, “I thought I was the one who owed you coffee,” Reba comments, and there’s a hint of wryness to her words, “Now I have to get you something else, D.”

“I thought you may like it.” His words are spoken as if he was telling a blunt truth, no emotion in them even if the message itself contradicts that motion. He keeps showing more interest for her and that’s absolutely forbidden but then again, he’s the champion of having a taste of the impossible. When she mentions something to give him in return, his body answers for him and his chest is very, very warm all of a sudden. Fuck damn it, he’ll walk around with an erection for a while? No. This needs to stop, because he knows what kind of favors she could use to return his attentions. Dolarhyde’s breathing is rather quick because he wants to trespass a limit he shouldn’t and that is pretty stressful for one morning. His fingertips go to his jugular and he counts. Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two. Progressively he forces himself to control himself back to normal. It’s an exercise he has performed whenever he goes on his killings. Keeps him focused.

Predator eyes find hers, even if they are dead and empty, there’s a special brilliance on them, and he’s not talking about the effect of the light, the sun coming through the window but her own. Perhaps it’s her clothes, the white shirt and the way her skin contrasts beautifully against it, but there’s something else the man cannot identify.

“I want to…” he pauses because he has no idea if what he’s going to say is right or wrong. “If we’re having the same conditions tonight, I’ll… drive you back home again.” He’s eager for the climate to continue being horrible, but at any rate, he loves the snow and the rain. The icy sensation on his skin. If he could, he’d go out running every morning nude.

“I’d appreciate that. It-, it gets really cold waiting for the bus most nights, especially if it’s snowing.” She very much wants it to snow now and makes a mental note to check the weather as soon as he’s gone.

Dolarhyde takes a sip of his coffee, the chocolate scent filling his nostrils. “You shouldn’t be on your own in the middle of the night.” It sounds like an order, even if it’s just a suggestion. The night is perfect for men like him to catch their victims, especially with someone like her, beautiful and fragile. But he knows that’s not entirely true. She has shown some guts talking to him, an almost impossible task.

“I can handle myself, don’t worry,” Reba replies softly but firmly, “It doesn’t look like much,” a quick nod towards her cane, propped at the side of her desk, “But it hurts like hell if you get hit with it, I promise you that much. But-, it’s…it’s nice of you to be concerned.” It’s a concession she rarely makes, that she appreciates the worry of others. But Francis means it genuinely, or at least she’d bet on it if she were the betting type. 

“It’s still dangerous, even if you’re carrying a cane, a trained man can ditch it and attack you.” He avoids the word ‘rape’ not for gentlemanly reasons but for the fact that he doesn’t want any attention driven to him because he’s talking about the topic. “Sometimes the struggle against a robber is what leads to tragic consequences.” He’s old fashioned in the way he speaks sometimes and it’s rare that he’s opening little by little to have a real conversation with her. So, when he realizes this, Dolarhyde makes a mental not to not do it again.

“I’m blind, D. I always have to worry if someone’s going to use it against me. Telling myself I can defend myself is the only way I feel safe.” She fidgets uncomfortably as he brings up the ever present possibility of attack. It was something that always lingered in the back of her mind, her own damned vulnerability, and she shudders visibly as she thinks of the news reports. Reba doubts he means any harm, speaking so bluntly, but it makes her anxious. She knows that she could be tooth and nail and claw if it came to it. But it’s never come to that, luckily, save when some jackass stole her purse two years ago outside the mall, but sometimes the fear creeps up on her. She tells herself to be brave, because in order to be brave, you have to acknowledge your own fear. Her mother told her that, when she was young, and she’s never forgotten that.

“Not the only way. Someone could do it for you.” Not that he’s offering himself for the task, no. He never had to defend anyone, save from his grandmother and the Love he held for her, together with the Hatred and the mix in his head that lead him to what he is now. The protection of the Dragon, resting in his attic waiting for him every day, calming its hunger with blood, that’s something entirely different. The woman needs it too but he’s too stubborn to accept that she needs his help. Both his and the Entity that keeps him together. But he knows by now that the idea is impossible. The Dragon doesn’t want her near him at all.

“Someone? I really don’t think I make enough to be able to hire Batman to watch my back. Daredevil, maybe. He’s blind, isn’t he?” Oh god, please let him know she’s talking about, Reba silently begs as moment later as she realizes she’s doing it again. She’s talking and talking to fill the nervous spaces, but another part of her whispers that she’s speaking because she wants to talk to him, to have him talk back.

He’s not ignorant as to know who Batman is, but Daredevil? Far from a familiar name. “Uh-hmmm.” He’s forgotten that his sibilant ’s’ causes his issues with his replies. But that rarely happens now with her, because the ‘yes’ seems to come out naturally, even if it sounds strange.

“Do you like the snow?” she asks gently, determined to keep him here for just a moment longer, just a minute more. She’d heard the chair scrape against the floor, after all, he had sat next to her. “I like it a lot, just, you know, not when I’m trying to get home.”

“Yes.” He leaves his warm cup on the desk and puts his hands over his knees, as if this was an interrogatory. “I like the rain too.”

_Who fucking cares?_

 “Really? I love rain, more than snow, honestly. I like to go out sometimes after it’s rained, during the summer when the pavement’s still warm. It’s fresher then, it just-, it feels clean, somehow.” She realizes suddenly that she’s talking far too much than he’s used to, probably even likes, and bites the corner of her lip in thought.

That peaks his interest. He imagines her, all wet in the middle of her front yard smiling up as the water drops caress her skin. “I like to read when it rains.” Just him, a good book by the window and the world far, far away from his reach. Or rather, he away from the world’s reach.

“Yeah? What do you like to read? It’s nice to read when it’s raining. Get a nice cup of tea, settle down and get cozy.” It’s nearly impossible to imagine Francis Dolarhyde anything even remotely akin to cozy, given his pauses and intricately constructed actions, but it’s endearing to at least consider the notion.

“Classics.” He lies about the fact that his favorite book is a tabloid with newspaper articles but she can’t know that. “Anatole France, Hermann Hesse, John Steinbeck.” He has read some of them during his years at war, since there was nothing to do some nights and the peace was something precious and rare. He didn’t like them all, but he’s a highly cultured man and cherry-picks things from different authors to construct his identity. He imagines then what would it be like to read to her, how bizarre it would be.

_You’re wasting the few cells of your brain that function with this._

Visibly impressed, Reba steals another sip and smiles. “You’re brilliant then, aren’t you? I’ve only read Steinbeck, so I hope you don’t think I’m uncultured or something. I liked Shakespeare, at least, I have a big book of everything he ever wrote on my shelf. Can’t, you know, read it, but it’s there so can at least look fairly smart.” Talking again, she’s talking too much again.

Appraisal. Dolarhyde is not good with that because he considers everything fake and a lie but coming from her, it doesn’t sound like it’s either of them. “Steinbeck is good. Charles Bukovski too.” But that’s another kind of literature for her to dwell into. Like Salman Rushdie. He’s impressing her like a boy who shows his newest toys to his childhood crush. She may not be able to read them but she can smell them, and the smell of books is one of his favorite things.

“If you end up driving me home, you can stay for dinner if you like. I haven’t cooked for anyone else in ages, so I can’t promise much, but I’d like to say thanks.” **_Oh fuck_** , now she’s really been too bold, and braces herself for his reply.

It’s been ages since anyone cooked something for him, last time he was the army and it wasn’t prepared with the same interests she has for him. He shouldn’t. He wants to go home to his films and enjoy a good night immersed in his thoughts with his projector and the blood and broken glass in the movies. But he’s made it this far, and he doesn’t like to lose any game. “Sure. I’d like to stay in your house tonight.” And an open interpretation for her to believe whatever she wants to.

The woman takes another small sip of her coffee and nearly chokes on it at his reply, cheeks flushing a dark red. She hadn’t meant it like that, if that’s what he had suspected. Normally it’d be enough for her to call it off, quickly clarify and come up with some excuse, but Reba decides she trusts him. He’s very nearly afraid to even touch her now, she’ll be safe. And besides, she wants to speak to him, to know him better. “Good. Do you like Italian?”

“Yes. We could buy some wine on the road too.” Whatever, really. He’s in deep shit by now.

Reba sucks in a small breath of air, fingers awkwardly playing with a few strands of her dark hair. “Alright,” A small, slow smile creeps its way onto her face and colors her features with a gentle warmth, “Italian it is, then, and wine to top it off.” Is this a date? Is he helping her plan out their date? That’s a good sign and she smiles to think of yesterday when he could barely utter more than a word in reply to her. The cracks in the ice surrounding Francis Dolarhyde are beginning to show and Reba cares to see more of them if he’ll grant her that luxury. “So, I’ll see you after work then?”

“Uh-huh.”

Minutes later, he’s back at his desk. And it’s quite impossible to take his head away from what will happen in a few hours. A date, a date, a date. No. Away with that.

It’s not until nine when he becomes more nervous than before when she arrives to the spot they arranged to meet. He stops at one of the wineries he knows which has a decent quality in their products and buys Malbec for both, which goes splendidly with pasta. As soon as he pulls over, the man stares at the door while she opens it and steps inside. Dolarhyde remains in his place without moving one single muscle, studying her territory as if he was doing it with one of his victims.

Back exit, bedroom is surely upstairs, the stairs seem to be in good condition so his steps won’t be heard, he’d shoot her on her stomach, as usual and…

_Yes. That would be such a good idea. Do something useful to convince me that you’re not like the rest of the inferior idiots out there._

She can barely believe it when, just as they’d agree, Francis is there waiting. What nervousness she had possessed yesterday, and not unrightly, has faded since. Here she is, with none other than Francis Dolarhyde staring in her doorway clutching wine Does he want to sleep with her? Does she want to sleep with him?

“You can go ahead and make yourself at home, if you want.” She slips her flats off, nudging them against the wall. He’s not moving, she hasn’t heard a single foot, and she wonders if he’s nervous. She continues gently, “There’s some books over there on the shelf, if you want to look at them. Can’t even remember what they are now, if I’m honest.” They were hers when she was a girl, or others she’s just collected through the years, and they work to help make the space seemed more like a home. She can’t read them, no, but they’re comforting and familiar.

He eyes the books, merely reading some titles and leaves the bottle of wine on the table. There aren’t many photos, a few pictures and that’s it. It’s all designed for visitors, she can’t enjoy anything unless it’s Braille or holds a definite shape she can recognize with her fingers.

She takes a careful step forward, holding out a hand towards him. “Would you like me to take your jacket?” A small smile and Reba tells herself to speak honestly, speak true. “I’m glad you came, D.” Her fingers reach out to very tenderly, almost delicately even, take his hand and lightly squeeze it.

What does she want? With a beast like him? What could she possibly expect from someone who conceals eighty percent of himself to the common eye? But she likes the rest twenty percent and he wants to think that she finds it genuinely interesting. Enough for her to praise him.

Slowly, both palms move up to cup her cheeks, warm and full of life, one he never witnessed before. Dolarhyde’s thumb rubs her them lightly and looks at her through half-lidded eyes. He’s being bold, and it feels right, the voice in his mind silent, probably judging him like usual but silently. And he appreciates the gesture because this is a revolution in his life, one he wasn’t prepared to face.

His hands, strong, slightly calloused, touche her as gently as he had the night prior. People treat her like glass, as if she’s something broken, fragile delicate thing, but no one touches her like this. No man has ever touched her like this. Her eyes briefly widen only to flutter shut and she silently leans into his touch, sated to have more of what she had craved in the van.

Gradually, his face eclipses hers and he doesn’t close his eyes, wanting to watch her do the same. Once their mouths make contact, his sapphire eyes fall and he begins moving against her full, velvety-like lips. He kisses her slowly, not minding the scar above his mouth because she has touched him and didn’t mock of such monstrosity. Perhaps that’s part of this act of bravery that comes from the biggest hermit and most difficult man to trust in the world.

The worries that had plagued her all day, followed her home in the van with him and even onto the footstep of her own door fade. It’s slow, deliciously so, and even if wasn’t so shocked Reba thinks she’d nearly moan from it. Either way, she kisses him back, stepping forward as he pauses only to snare her mouth again. God, Francis is gentle. **_Francis_**.

He makes an almost silent sound with his throat as he breaks contact and goes for another kiss, as gentle as the first one. It comes naturally and he thinks of biting her, munching on her lips and tearing them away, taste her blood. But no, they are beautiful just where they are right now. Would he lay a finger against her well being?

He breaks contact once more, still holding her cheeks with his palms and looks down at the woman’s dead eyes, waiting for either a slap or another kiss. And as he gently breaks contact, a small smile twitches onto the corner of her lips. “I wanted you to kiss me in the van yesterday,” Reba admits softly, voice barely above a whisper. And she had, she had wanted it desperately, “I wanted you to kiss me today at the office.”

It’s bliss and madness, it’s pure and dirty and absolutely wrong and right. She wanted it, he wanted it, they just needed to communicate and Dolarhyde is awful at it, shyness and introversion be dammed. The man rests his forehead against hers as she speaks and looks down at her nose and her star shaped scar, nostrils flaring as he tries to contain the beast inside him. He tries to articulate something clever to say but he’s stupid, he’s not used to this kind of intimacy and doesn’t know what to do with his hands. She can feel his breath against her lips again, the bridge of his nose against her own, and there’s the intimacy again, that strange, soft flicker of connection she’s never had with anyone else. It’s careful, cautious-, just like everything Francis does, and the need for it begins to slowly churn in her veins like a drug.

Reba steps closer to him, a hand carefully reaching up to cup his jaw. “I want you to kiss me, Francis.” She leans upwards and presses her lips once more to the corner of his mouth, then makes her way to the scar cutting through the skin just above. Reba kisses him properly now, wanting him to know no scar is enough for her to change her mind, for him to be any less deserving of a kiss. Her fingers trace lightly over the arches of his strong features, her mouth moving slowly over his. They map out the angles of his face, fingertips gliding over his cheekbones and jaw. They’d made jokes at work before about him, speculating he had to be a virgin given that he could barely stand to be in the same room with other women, and it had upset her enough that she grabbed her tea and briskly walked to finish her lunch back at her desk. But now, he kisses her so well, so impossibly perfectly, that she distantly thinks he can’t be.

There’s her soft tongue inside his mouth and he replies, stroking it with his. Dolarhyde finally closes his eyes and his hands move down to her shoulders slowly, wanting to keep her there just in case she escapes. He forgets about his scar and focuses all his attention in the slow exchange they share that gradually grows in intensity. He can’t restrain himself and groans very softly against her mouth, overwhelmed by what’s going on, where it’s happening and who is his partner.

Yeah, he could never see it coming.

His groan sends a shiver up her spine and she wants him to speak again, to have that deep, rich voice against her ear and neck and murmuring her name. Stepping forward, he forces her to bump gently against the table and he reaches down to grab her thighs to sit her up on it. Dolarhyde breaks the kiss and retreats to get a look of his work and he naturally panics. How did he got there? What force drove him to do what he did? It’s like something that naturally happened and he’s scared.

It surprises her, very nearly startles her, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t push him away. When the kiss breaks she instinctively leans forward to continue it, doesn’t want it to end, but he’s pulled away. His hands move down at both sides of her hips, not touching her nor moving at all.

**_I want you to kiss me, Francis._ **

He regrets his action because she’s not to be invaded like that. No, the woman is holy ground and he can step on it, he’s not worthy. Dolarhyde bows his head down, ashamed. “I’m sorry. That was improper.”

His apology makes her blink and she’s utterly silent for a long moment. Reba’s heart aches again and she wonders what’s been said to him to make him so afraid, to make him feel undeserving or ugly. Why is he so afraid? She leans forward, a hand resting against his chest. He’s very strong, that’s what everyone says, and she can feel ridges of muscle beneath her fingers. “No-, don’t be sorry. I don’t want you to be sorry,” She says it very quietly, gently, and her fingers move to his cheek. With a light tug, she presses a kiss to the scar on his lip again, resting there for a moment before allowing her mouth to press kisses against his jaw, his brow, his cheek, just along his neck. They’re soft things, almost reassurances, and a part of her knows no one has ever touched him like this. It spurs her own and she rests her forehead against his, gently nuzzling her nose against his. “I-, I want this. I like this. I like you.” A small pause. “Do you want to sleep with me, Francis?”

He doesn’t have to answer, really. Because by doing it he’d be breaking the spell of the night and he’s sure that he’s going to ruin it. Her hands all over his face scare him but also do wonders, like being discovered by someone who’s not interested in the exterior only. Because by this point he’s convinced there’s something else than a random fuck, or at least his juvenile mind wants him to believe that.

She’s kissing his scar and she’s not mocking him.

She’s touching him, and she wants him.

So this is what a human contact feels like. The beast in him despises it but there’s a man who’s learning and likes it very much. For reasons he can’t explain, he needs to be there tonight. He’s not going anywhere. “Yes,” he finally answers, and the dance begins.

She weights nothing for a strong man like him when he carries her upstairs to her bedroom. He doesn’t ask, but he imagines that’s where it is. With her legs secure around his hips, the man makes his way staring at her and only her without tripping on anything. He has trained several times on how to use stairs in the night because when it comes to houses it’s handy to know, and he doesn’t tear his eyes apart from her. He’s unbelievably strong, she realizes as her fingertips slide over his back, and she feels like a child in his arms. As he carries her, Reba takes time to kiss along his neck, inhaling the now familiar scent of him. The trip ends when he sits on the bed. He makes her feel wanted, desired and there is no shred of the pity she so loathes in him. Her hands move through his short hair, down his back to stroke over his shoulderblades and the muscle resting there.

She moans softly as he kisses her neck, head tilting aside to allow him more space. Reba can feel how hard he is and his noise of want is enough to kindle a spark of desire in her. She wants to have him enjoy this, to smile. To trust her and know just as he is different, she too is. And perhaps that’s why they’ve found each other.

He wants her. He does. With her generous perfect curves, beautiful eyes and wonderful lips. A moment later she’s shifted in his lap and he goes for another kiss, this time more passionate and keeps her sitting like a doll. His hands move to her back to raise her blouse lightly and feel her skin, she tosses her clothes aside, shivering slightly as the cool air hits her bare skin, but Francis exudes heat against her.

It’s so difficult for him to realize that this is definitely happening, that he’s not daydreaming, because cold dead skin has nothing to do with Reba. She’s very warm and alive and he’s being granted with the gift of touching her like this. Dolarhyde closes his eyes and bends forward, inhaling in her neck and kissing it as his fingertips move higher to undo her brassiere. Another soft sound coming from his throat, because he’s extremely aroused and enjoying every second of this discovery, freeing himself from fears and uncertainty regarding this woman. He’s feeling everything and he’s so overwhelmed that he forgets how much he wants to see her writhe under his touch too. Breasts exposed, the man lifts one hand to gently cup it, kneading her pink nub with his thumb, encouraging its hardness. He’s more interested in her reactions than anything else. He’s studying her, after all. But this is not an academic lesson to learn. This is sex. This is a celebration of each other.

_Just sex?_

Her breath comes quicker as his hand finds her breast and he’s touching her so carefully that she wonders if he’s ever been with someone before. Or, at least, someone who’s wanted him as wholly as she does now.

“I want to touch you.” Her hips slowly begin to rock against his and her fingers clumsily work to lift his shirt off, eager to have him as unclothed as she is. Small hands find their way under his shirt and explore over his chest, slowly dragging down to his belt. She leans back in his lap and carefully, almost timidly begins to touch him through his pants.

Dolarhyde looks at her expression as she touches his clothed manhood, fully erect and wanting for release. He wants to ask her to not stop, but that would delay his goal. He wants her to smell like him after tonight so everybody knows who she belongs to.

“Do it,” he murmurs, peeling himself off from his shirt, exposing broad muscled shoulders, chest firm and hard as bricks. A place where she could die if he would like to crush her against it. Her fingers move down, down, down and he fights back a moan because it’s too early for that, he’s behaving like a first timer. Perhaps it is, for both of them anyways. Perhaps he’s not allowing himself yet to run with the stream of sensations. Ç

He’s hot enough that she feels her fingertips may be seared and she whispers. “You’re so strong-,” both in surprise and ardently.Her mouth moves to kiss along his collarbones, his shoulders. He’s used to that kind of comment from all the women he’s bed, so naturally it’d hold no importance but the fact that it’s coming from her mouth changes everything. It’s not just arousal, it’s exploration and he’s never been more proud of his physique than today.

One hand moves back to her rear to push her closer to his hardness as she grinds on him and he finally gives in with a semi groan as she stimulates him. Not that he truly needs to. He’s desired her since they were in the car the previous night here they are now, half nude and finding each other. She follows his guidance, straddling him fully now and allowing the rocking of her hips to become more purposeful, to coax out another groan from him.

 “Yours,” he mutters and opens his eyes wide because he has no fucking idea from where that came from. Yes, for tonight they belong to each other but the word was unnecessary because it will lead to confusion. He doesn’t know if he’ll stay with her or if he’ll go in the morning. All he cares right now is having this fascinating woman on top of him, exposed and hungry for someone like him. It’s almost a miracle, really.

Reba’s drunk on him, on his smell and touch, but his words, word rather, is enough for her to pause entirely.Her eyes widen and she’s certain she’s misheard, but after a pause, she leans in to kiss against his scar once more. “I’m yours,” she states gently, both a reply and a promise. It should frighten her, saying something like that so soon, but there’s a soft, earnest truth to her words. They can have each other.

The man arches his back and rests his head on the mattress as she rocks against his member and he breathes through his nose because he’s biting his lips to not make a sound, mostly for pride because he just cannot allow himself to be this lost with this woman. He can’t be tamed so easily. His palms move up her back slowly, tracing her spine with his fingertips as he looks up at her enthralled. It’s difficult because he should trust her, but he trusts no one. And if she decides to laugh at him the following day at work, well, he’ll do what he must. But tonight, he can allow himself to believe in that lie.

Moving in his lap, she struggles briefly with undoing her skirt, feet finding the floor as she shifts backwards. Trembling fingers catch on the zipper along her back but she frees herself, dropping her remaining clothing to the floor. She tries to think of the last time she was completely naked in front of a man. She had been nervous then, all those years ago, because she could only guess at his expression and feared revulsion was in his eyes.

It’s different now. Reba wants Francis to see her like this, bare and vulnerable. Needs her to see him like this. It’s an act of trust, having any defense she might muster stripped away.

But she trusts him.

The man sits up to do exactly the same, removing his pants and underwear and taking her to bed to touch each other. As their bodies meet, she sighs contentedly. His hand moves over her belly to go southwards to stroke her pearl and when he begins to touch her, her back arches in surprise and pleasure. Eyes flutter shut as she gasps, a soft laugh following.

He guides her hand to rest on his hip for her to do whatever she wants. Dolarhyde moves closer to kiss her shoulder and hide his face on her neck, inhaling in her scent.

As her fingers reach his hip, she slowly traces over the curve of his hipbone. He’s hot, they’re warm together. But she wants him to feel just as she does, blissful and wanted, and for that her fingers begin to stroke over him. Her own hips roll into his hand and she moans softly, his name falling from her lips once more.

The opportunity is not or never, and he decides to let it out. “You’re beautiful.” The simplest of all sentences which has never been applied on anyone before in his life.

She briefly stops at his admission, for it’s more than just a mere compliment coming from him. With a free hand, Reba curls her arm around him and pulls him close, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. “Thank you,” She murmurs, because what else can she say? She is grateful, she’s touched and she feels warm with more than just desire.

At her gratitude, the man pauses for a moment because he doesn’t understand it. Thanks? For what? He should be the one saying it but hell if he will. Because at any moment she could say something to laugh and ridicule him. He’s giving himself to her but that doesn’t mean he blindly trusts her. He can’t answer to that at all.

Reba kisses against his shoulder and neck then, fingers continuing to work gently along him. “I need you,” She murmurs, voice lazy with pleasure, “Francis, I need you.”

He’s not used to hear his name being said like this at all and even less if it’s being said with such need. Someone actually needing him, even if it’s for physically pleasure. But -needing- him. He has been the one who’s asked for attention always, one that’s been denied and replaced with abuse instead. This woman, calling for him is so different in so many levels.

There’s a certain thrill to it, not being able to see where his hands and limbs move, where his mouth decides to press. Reba feels as if she’s burning up, desire coursing in her and the heat of Francis’ powerful body so close against her own. She’s never felt like this, never wanted someone or something like this.

His index spreads her folds and he inserts one digit as he rests his forehead against hers, side by side on the bed kissing Reba, silencing her moaning. Her hand on him is driving him insane, touching his sex with such grace and encouraging the inevitable. Impatient girl, so eager for him. So perfect. Slowly, Dolarhyde’s finger retreats and he rolls to lay on top of her. Surprised, she shifts her legs and moves her hand to his muscled shoulders in preparation. Strong hands that could kill her in mere seconds if he wanted, part her legs and he adjusts his manhood against her slit. His mouth is hovering on hers all the time, and it only moves down to her neck the moment he pushes inside and fights back a moan. Her eyes flutter shut and her trembling nails dig tightly into his shoulders. He’s still for a moment and she can’t breathe, can’t think because all she knows is him, him, **_him_**.

His hips draw forward and she allows herself a soft moan, body adjusting to him. A wave of pleasure surges through her and Reba allows her nails to drag slowly down his back. The ridges of muscle there slide and shift beneath her finger tips as he slowly moves. She says his name softly and in awe. She’s burning and so is he, and it never felt this great before. Truly, he feels like a virgin all over again, feeling someone else living flesh for the first time in his life.

_Oh, but you fall in this with the Selected Ones too, remember? She’s not special, boy._

Dolarhyde pauses and closes his eyes tight because no, He’s not going to ruin this, he won’t allow it, even if he knows that if the Dragon wants to, he’ll do it.

The boys in college had been something to pass the time, something to make her feel normal but this-, this is different. This is new and God, she’s never wanted anything so much as this.

Deeper he goes, lips parted, breathing against her neck until he hits the back of her entrance and remains there for a few seconds, fully penetrating her before moving slowly back. Not because he’s gentle but because he wants to extend the feeling of being inside her. The man rests his weight on his forearms to not crush Reba and begins to move slowly.She surrounds him, both physically and mentally and he can’t describe fully in words the odd sensation inside the killer, because he’s doing it right, she’s been his, way before they could reach this state. He knows little to nothing about her and yet it feels like he’s been made for her alone, and she for him because this kind of language can only mean that.

“You-,” she sucks in a breath, a soft moan following, “You feel amazing, Francis.”

He’s not a talker in bed but he listens and appreciates her words, how could he not? She worships his body with her touches and appraisal and he provides what she wants. Her nails on his back scratch hard and he finally can’t take it before moaning, because she’s trying to possess him and she’s making it. The man’s palm moves down from her shoulder to her waist and it continues its slow trip to her thigh to reach her knee and force her closer against him. Touching her is like learning how to play a piano: you need to know how to press the right keys in order to have the sweetest sounds and so far, he’s doing wonderfully. He rolls his hips against hers and tightens his muscles to deliver as much pleasure as possible. The hills on his back, inked with Him, welcome her hands, and the painted figure contorts and looks like it’s truly alive. But it’s not Him the one possessing her right now. It’s Francis Dolarhyde. The one she wants.

_Not for too long._

The voice in his head goes silent again and he’s thankful because he needs this night. Something important is happening here and he doesn’t want to be interrupted.

In the van they had been so careful, so cautious; fingers moving as if the other was made of glass. But now they’re together and exploring, hands shifting and stroking and learning. It’d normally worry her, someone being this quiet, but Francis is different. He’s different in every detail and she doesn’t question herself, no-, he shows what he cannot say.

**_His fingers on her brow, a cup of coffee slid in her direction, his hand against the small of her back to guide her-_ **

The pleasure makes her grow bold and she moves a hand to his, sliding against the sheets to wrap her fingers with Dolarhyde’s. His hands dwarf hers but she wants to touch him all the same, some tiny, simple gesture of trust. He had flinched away once but now? They’re together and whole and nothing has ever matter except for this, for them. She shifts beneath him to wrap her legs around his waist, wanting his strong body close, and the free hand moves to tilt his chin up to her mouth. There’s a thousand things she want to say, to whisper and gasp and murmur to him, to reassure him and guide him and let him know, but Reba’s tongue fails her and for that she kisses him deeply.

She breaks the kiss with a soft moan, fingers move to ghost over his lips, his scar, and she whispers breathlessly, “I think you’re beautiful, Francis.”

No, he’s not. “I want you.” He can’t accept the idea that he could be beautiful but he doesn’t want to contradict her. Especially not now. The man hides his face between her breasts, arching just a bit for access due to their height difference and he kisses the valley between her mounds before taking one in his mouth.

She groans softly at his admission of want, back arching as his mouth dips between her breasts. “Francis-,” Reba can’t help but gasp as his lips trail over her, her fingers grasping desperately at his shoulders and hair and any part of him she can clutch onto. She’s drowning now and he’s the only anchor she’s ever known, but she’s never known anything like this and how has she lived without it? But it doesn’t last much. Dolarhyde pins her in bed, tightening his grip on her hands and begins to move faster, pounding into her more vigorously as he looks down at the woman’s face, reading her every reaction.

There’s so much at hand he doesn’t know where to start but he lets nature take over and fill in with the blanks. That’s how from shy touches they end up moving to the point that the bed starts to creak. He’s lucid and possessed by his own wanting at the same time and he can’t fathom coherent words to say in that second. Only more moaning against her hair and neck, caressing her skin with his hot breathing. Powerful thrusts meet as they drive into each other with wanting. One that goes beyond the flesh. This is conquering. This is claiming and it goes from both parties because even if she may be the ‘innocent’ one in this game, she knows how to drive him insane. He takes his good time to look at her, the way her curly hair rests on the white pillow, making a contrast as beautiful as their skins do. Black and white, ying and yang. How extraordinary. That idea of completion escapes from him right now, but it’s something that has been implanted in him and will undoubtedly grow.

“Say my name,” he requests against her lips before kissing her cheek and he wonders what on earth made him demand that. Perhaps it’s her voice, perhaps it’s him wanting to have something to prove him that this is all real and not just his imagination.

Her eyes briefly widen at his request but she nods, free hand moving to grasp the back of his neck. Reba pulls him down to her and leans upwards to rest her forehead against his. She can barely breathe now, can’t even think. “Francis-,” She whispers, eyes fluttering shut as he coaxes another moan out of her, “ ** _Francis.”_** Nails dig into his shoulders again, lightly, slowly dragging downwards. “God-, you feel so good, please-,” Reba sucks in a breath, heart racing and mind void of anything save him, “Francis, please don’t stop. I need-, fuck, I need you.” Her voice grows urgent because he has to know, has to understand.

His name escapes her lips and his breathing becomes erratic, even for a man who can be in such control with himself after years of working with his body. This is so different he can’t even register what’s going on, or rather, the depth of what’s happening to him. The Francis he knows is watching from the distance, and the one who has yearned for this is in awe with how good he’s responding to her.

And he needs her too. Like air, like the blood pumping wild in his veins. It’s power, absolute power and vulnerability that’s driving him to have her this way. The man moves slowly then fast again, feeling every inch of her entrance against his erect sex and leans down to reply to her kiss, messy, desperate. He wants to protect that little thing beneath him, wants to possess her, keep her. And he will do it, yes he will. Against all odds, no matter what.

Reba knows she’ll ache in the morning between her thighs but it will be a welcome ache, one she encouraged and one she’ll wish for again. His groaning grows louder and she knows he’s slowly beginning to come undone, but she’s been undone from the moment Francis lifted her into his arms and slid his hands beneath her thighs.

He has chosen her. And she has chosen him. That is an undeniable truth. She came in the right moment for his Becoming and he wants to share it with her, but right this second all that matters is that they are both entangled in her bed feeling each other in the most intimate way. His hard chest presses against hers as they move and their coupling becomes more violent, not due to intensity only but because he wants to give it all to her, show her who he is, how much she has taken him.

He can’t reply with her name because if he does he will come and he wants her to reach her climax first. Her, her, her, all for her. “I…” he mutters against her full mouth. “I need you.”

Big mistake. 

No place for fear. The doubt she wards off, the pity she combats-, it is all gone and left in its place is his lips against her own and his groans and him inside of her. He’s kissing her hard now and his breath is hot against her lips. She feels safe here, surrounded by his strong arms and she doesn’t want it to end. It’s a luxury, this whole, pure safety and Francis can make her feel protected.

“Yes-,” She sobs, back arching as his hips rock into her own, “Yes-, I need you, I need you, Francis-”. Reba clutches onto him with a renewed desperation, fingers trembling as they trail blindly over his shoulders, along his ribs. She’s almost begging now, the way she says his name, and the floodwaters are rising around her and she’s drowning, drowning, drowning.

And she does, she needs him more than anything.

Something snaps in her then, or perhaps falls into place, and she gasps anew. Shaking fingers scrape over his shoulders as her neck arches back, his name falling from her lips. “Please-, please I want you to come-,” Reba begs now, every inch of her alight with pleasure as she reaches her climax, body trembling as she gasps, “Francis-, Francis, please.”

He should be panicking but he’s not. His moves are frantic and he forces himself to look down at their bodies meeting to realize this is real. It doesn’t last long; he grabs one of Reba’s thighs hard and raises her leg over his shoulder for better access. She’s begging and boy, that’s music for his ears. The man wants to bite her lips, hard enough to tear them away, bite her jaw, her neck, shoulder until he takes pieces off her but he controls his desire. She’s not like _Them_. She’s alive, very much alive in every sense of the word.

Breath comes quick, fingers shaking and pulse roaring. She’s thrilled as he takes control and the unexpected roughness draws a grin to her face. Reba nods, clutching at him to encourage him. Everything is happening at once and it’d be overwhelming but for him. Francis anchors her, Francis is her anchor and he’s coming undone before her. He’s always so careful, and she wonders sometimes if he’s afraid of her, but not now. Not like this.

More, more and more and he keeps his tunnel vision until he can’t hold it and releases his seed inside her after the woman’s hot demands with a loud grunt atop of her. Back arched, chess tight and eyes closed. He comes and she can feel his muscles tighten beneath her fingertips, strong body trembling against her and within her. He’s still for a moment then and Reba briefly wonders what’s he’s doing (is he regretting this?). Slowly, his head falls to look at her, a mess on her own bed, his doing.

With difficulty, Dolarhyde lowers himself on top of her and hides his face against her neck, seeking comfort. He doesn’t want the solitude after sex, like it has always happened. He wants it to last, to engrave it in his memory as the most pleasurable night of his life and he mouths something against her skin. Something he doesn’t have the guts to say out loud.

Settling against her in such a gentle, simple display of vulnerability makes her heart soften all the more for him. Still working to steady her breath, Reba wraps her arms tightly around him, pressing small, lazy kisses against any part of him she can reach. Fingertips trace patterns absently over his skin and she can feel a light coating of sweat over him, no doubt mirroring her own body. Her caresses are welcomed despite the fragile state in which he finds himself. Perhaps that’s the reason as to why he can freely accept them, but then again, he’s not in control of his emotions right now. The man inhales deeply and exhales against her neck feeling her kisses. In order to not crush her, the man rolls to lie on his side and takes her hand to kiss her fingertips before forcing a smile because he’s really not used to it. No one made him smile in a long, long time. The man closes his eyes and his features relax, hoping that she will catch the shift on his facial muscles.

The heat of her body makes everything different, his world changes a hundred and eighty degrees and nothing seems to be like it was. The man curls against her in fetal position and pulls the sheets up to cover their slightly wet bodies to shield them from the cold. One arm wraps around her waist and he finds her lips with lazy kisses. **_She’s safe_**. She’s the closest he could call like home.

And that’s terrifying.

Reba McClane, the eighth wonder of the world. The human who can soothe with her presence the pain he has to endure every day. And it’s just been a little more than twenty four hours since they met. Dolarhyde pulls her closer against his burning chest and he sighs deeply, inhaling the air of the new world he’s discovering and he’s, obviously, afraid to see. Because we fear the unknown, and so does he.

“You’re amazing,” She murmurs, a light smirk falling onto her lips, and a part of her intuitively knows he doesn’t do this. He doesn’t let people touch him. He’s said as much, yes, but for his fear someone must have hurt him terribly. He’s vulnerable with her now, unguarded even, and Reba wants him to feel the same safety he had given unto her.

The man takes her fingers and laces them with his own, observing the differences. Her small hand in comparison to his large one, their skins, the roughness of his calloused fingers and the few cuts and burnt marks on hers. He brings them to his mouth to kiss them again and caresses his own cheek with the back of her digits. He examines her nails and places her hand between their bodies, as if it was something he’d like to keep forever. A memento of this experience. Something to engrave in his mind, something unspoiled.

Francis is gentle and she wonders if she can feel the awe in his touch. She knows now, deep in her understanding and somewhere in her heart, that no one has ever touched him like this. Touched him with care and kindness and tenderness. For that she moves closer, cupping his cheek and splaying her fingers over his chest.

“You’re perfect,” he says, almost in a whisper against her lips and he doesn’t care about his restrictions, at least for now. Tomorrow will be another day and he’ll go back to his regular self but for now, he can allow himself this. Perfection, yes. Because she is. For him, at least, she is. And he doubts another woman like her exists in the world.

No, he’s sure of it.

**_There isn’t._ **

His words catch her off guard and her eyes briefly widen, the word striking her. Perfect. Perfect. “…Francis-,” is all she can whisper and Reba is surprised to feel a tear rolling downing her cheek and she’s horrified at how she much look. It’s not a word people use with her. She would be, might have been-, but she’s blind and that’s all people can see. They pity her and perfect is not to be pitied. “Would you smile?” She asks gently, hand moving to stroke lightly along his jaw, as if asking permission before trailing to his lips, “I’d like to feel it.”

“I don’t smile without a reason.” He’s harsh, but true to himself. He doesn’t know what is going to happen from now on but if she plans to continue talking with him, she should get used to it. Now the question is, what does he want with her?

_A good fuck, that’s obvious._

The honesty of his statement coaxes a small laugh out of her and she kisses the corner of his mouth, her corner, as she decides to call it. “I know you don’t,” Reba nods. He’s honest, Francis, to a fault, but there’s a comfort in it. She trusts his honesty, trusts him. “I will try and give you reasons to smile.”

Suddenly, his lips brush her fingertips and her expression softens, fingers moving to carefully map out his features. They slide over his scar, the corner of his lips and along his cheekbones, the barest hint of stubble along his cheek indented. He’s smiling, and he’s allowing her that. “You should smile more,” Reba murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek, “I think it suits you.”

**_I want to make you smile._ **

Oh, smiling. As if it was something easy for someone like Dolarhyde to achieve. Would Reba McClane provide real reasons for him to do it? She’s the closest he has ever seen as someone divine, out of this world that’s been unspoiled, waiting just for him even if he’s not an ignorant and knows that’s not true. But it’s a nice thought. She ‘threats’ him giving him reasons to smile and the man chuckles. “Do you think you can do it?” It’s not mocking actually, it’s almost (almost) a sincere question.

“I can try,” She smiles, resting her forehead against his, “And I will try my very best. I promise.” It’s more than a promise, that, and she knows it. _I promise._ The words whisper through her mind. It’s a vow. It means that this-, whatever glorious, unexpected perfect thing this is, will last more than just tonight. She wants it to, of course, because she hasn’t felt this safe since she was a girl. She hasn’t felt wanted, not like this. Reba all but sinks into his touch, features softening all the more. He may not want her to think of such, to guess at what has so harmed him, hurt him, but she will.

“I’m sorry-,” The urge overwhelms her and she moves all the closer to him, voice laced with something akin to urgency, “I am so sorry people have been cruel to you to make you think that you’re ugly and-, and I’m sorry that someone must have hurt you that you don’t want to be touched. That was wrong and-, and they’re wrong.” Reba rests her forehead against his, fingers stroking over his jaw and lips. “I think you are perfect, despite whatever anyone else may say. They don’t matter.”

Her words hit him but of course, bounce against the armor he wears. He can’t believe in what she says because she’s wrong. But she’s sorry for everything that has happened and that puzzles him. “You don’t have to… be sorry. It wasn’t your fault.” The man silences her pressing his mouth against hers gently and closing his eyes. Perfect. He’s far, very far from perfection. She ignores his True Face and he wonders if she’ll live to see him complete at last. For her alone, he could stretch the line between him and the human beings. There’s something his tortured soul cannot identify simply because he’s not a sweet cutie pie with a heart of gold. The black spots in his past have hardened his heart and yet this woman found the soft patches of humanity left in him. And it feels good. Is this what it feels like, to be alive?

For her alone, he’d kill if that’s what it takes to keep her beside him.

She deserves to be spared of His fury and be taken care of, protected, held until eternity in his arms. Dolarhyde’s mouth moves to her cheek and her jaw only to follow down her ear to the woman’s neck with feather-like kisses. He’s being unbelievable kind, gentle, and that should scare him because this is a side he never knew it existed. But for now, it’s all he needs. “Not your fault,” he repeats rolling to lie on his back and pull her to rest on top of him, safely covered by the thick, warm sheets and cover. “I don’t want you to feel bad. Not for that.” There will be time to fight tears for other more relevant reasons, he knows this, but doesn’t want to ruin this moment. Not in the slightest.

His answer causes her throat to grow tight and she works to keep tears from welling up in her eyes. Shifting to rest comfortably atop him, Reba lifts her hands gently up his face. “Then I won’t feel bad, I promise.” She leans forward to press a kiss to his brow, nuzzling her nose to his.

She touches him as if he was made of clouds and he closes his eyes to allow every inch of those gentle caresses rest on his body. Void of human care for so many years, the man tries to not become too emotional at the action, because he knows it won’t last long and because he thinks that this is just another test from Him to prove his worth. But the moment the woman kisses his brow and nuzzles, he falls. He just falls, and can’t ignore the warmth in his chest flooding in. Both palms go to her back to travel upwards to her shoulders slowly, luxuriating himself into the velvety sensation of her skin. “I don’t want you to.”

There’s wetness on the pillow. The man frowns and moves to look down at her. His index traces the path of the tear and brushes it away, absolutely confused.

“You don’t treat me like I’m…I’m fragile, like I’m broken,” Reba swallows hard, tempering her words even as they grow softer. “No one has ever told me I’m perfect. I’m blind, Francis, and people think that means broken. You don’t pity me. Thank you.” With that, she rests her head against his broad chest, curling into him.

She’s fragile, yes she is but deep inside he knows she’s a tigress for the way she faced him, wants to know more of him. Who’d have the guts to approach a freak like that? Maybe she can be his for real, because he knows that as soon as this night is over she’ll look for someone else, good looking of course, not like him. Nothing good lasts for the man. “I treat you like I want to be treated.” His hand moves up to stroke the dark curls of her hair and he remains quiet, allowing her to rest against his strong frame, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

His next words all but break her heart as his fingers trail into her hair, voice softer. He wants to be touched then, if he touches her with such tenderness, and wanted and cared for. She can give him that. Loved, is what a small, deep part of her murmurs. “You’re good to me, Francis,” Reba smiles and dips her lips down to kiss along his chest. She can taste the slightest sheen of sweat along his skin, but it’s not unpleasant, and she presses her lips lightly wherever they fall, “And I want to be good to you.”

Dolarhyde looks out the window as the snow continues. Something as beautiful as she is must be protected, and he decides in that moment that no matter what, he will keep her safe, especially that if by doing it he must spill blood. Because this is what it must feel like when you like someone that much, when you want to reciprocate the kindness that’s been given to you freely. He’s short with words because he’s never given the chance of sharing this moment with someone before therefore he has no idea how to act normally in these situations. “I’m sorry I’m not talkative.” It’s a lame excuse, but real.

“You don’t need to apologize. Besides, you don’t like talking just because air is free. I haven’t forgotten that. And we don’t always need to talk.” She can be a tease, yes.

“You understand,” he states, regarding his prolonged silences and lack of communication skills. Every single word she says is like a caress to his tormented soul and the oddity of such sensation is imprinted in his features.

She moves to peck her lips against his briefly and then leans in to kiss him deeply. It’s not intended to seduce him, or invoke what breathless passion they had just shared, but instead to simply memorize his mouth against hers. It’s a slow, enthralling one in which he has no say in it because she truly left him speechless.

He breaks the kiss and presses chaste ones, testing, wanting to hear the sound of their lips touching again and again. It’s like the ticking of a clock, he wants to get used to the sound. Because it’s nice.

Because…

“I want it to snow. I want it to snow so work is canceled and you can stay with me tomorrow.” It briefly occurs to her she’s been presumptuous, or at least she’s fearful she’s been, and questions gently, “If work’s canceled, would you like to spend the day with me?”

The back of his fingertips stroke her cheek softly as he feels her warm breath against his neck. The situation is overwhelming. Has he ever had anything remotely like this before? No. Does he know how to manage what’s inside him? No. Does he want to stay with her? Undoubtedly yes. But something is pulling him to go back home. “Yes,” he finally answers, resting his nape on the white pillow to look at the ceiling, see what she can’t. It’s just them in the darkness of her room and the brilliance that comes from the outside, that’s all. And for that, Dolarhdyde is more than content to be alive. At least tonight.

“I want to stay,” and that’s a statement rather than asking for permission.


	3. Chapter 3

He’s sinking slowly in the comfort of her bed, her company and the fulfilling sensation of the aftermath and he thinks that yeah, perhaps he could go for it again sometime in the future because he’s more than sure that this will be over after tomorrow when she realizes what kind of man he is. And he’s not talking about his Real Face but the public, the loner, ill mannered and disgusting he is. But then, if she ever got the chance to really see him, how would it be? If that ever happens, that is. Will she live, as he pondered before? Will she ever make it to another night? Yes, she will. They’ve seen him leaving with her. If she disappears, he’ll be the first suspect and he doesn’t need an act of stupidity to ruin his work.

The mere thought of it makes him frown and without realizing he’s doing it, Dolarhyde pulls her even closer, if possible, against his frame.

“Tell me about you,” he requests in a low voice. “When you were a little girl.”

She laughs, turning her face into his neck, and pauses thoughtfully for a long moment. “I loved swimming a lot and-, and I loved art. I used to make paintings, hideous little things with all sorts of bright colors, and sell them to the neighbors.” Another laugh. “They were nice enough to give me whatever change they had laying around. Christ, I thought I was going to be the next Picasso. Bodies entangled, he listens and runs his fingertips over her side, up and down her covered waist and ribs, tracing them one by one. He could break them, listen to the cracks and play with them. But he prefers her this way, whole, and the previous idea is ditched as he realizes that she doesn’t deserve to be changed. She is no one to modify.

He fancies her this way.

“I wasn’t always blind. I was seven when I lost my sight,” Her voice grows quieter, “It’s funny, how things sort of happen. Just-, just a few weeks and suddenly it’s gone. But I-, I played in puddles and my mother would get mad at me when I ruined my clothes. I still do it, sometimes. After it rains just-, go outside and slip my shoes off and feel the warm puddles beneath my toes. It makes me happy, things like that. Little things.”

A mini version of her doodling and painting comes to his mind, and for some reason he sees himself as a young boy watching her doing it in silence. Admiring her. Because he never got to have a very good education not to mention to grow in a family that supported him in what he wanted, or nice neighbors who could encourage him on anything. No, his deformity would have been the cause of them closing their doors in front of his face. “Sounds like you were happy,” he answers with a little difficulty, the ‘h’ strong.

He’s silent as he listens and the rise and fall of his chest beneath her head is so slow Reba would fear he’s asleep were it not for his careful touches. It occurs to her she might have been cruel, speaking of what he so very obviously lacked. It doesn’t make her feel guilty, she’s not one to feel guilt, but it makes him all the more of a wonder. It surprises her that he’s capable of this at all, of running his fingers through her hair and tucking him in her jacket and holding her as if she was something beautiful.

“I was happy,” she confesses softly, and her mind briefly remembers colors. It’s a flash of a thing, a flicker, but the colors are there, “I was lucky.” It’s a swift reminder that should she ever feel those initial urges to fall into self-pity, she should them away. She was pitied, yes, and she loathed it, but no one was repulsed by her. It is easier to be treated like glass than to be treated like a monster.

She turns to press a kiss along his collarbone, fingers tightening around his. “You can tell me whatever you want, Francis. If you don’t want to talk about something, let me know and I promise you I’ll never bring it up again, but I want to know about you.”

Where to begin with his story. Which bits will he share without disturbing her? He brought this upon himself, he knew it but he didn’t think of it in detail. “I was lonely when I was a boy.” That’s no news, and he forces himself to elaborate a little more. “My only friend was my grandmother’s cook. She was nice.” Kind of. “I wish I had a friend like you.”

Hearing his difficulty, Reba laces her fingers with his own in a silent display of encouragement, lips nuzzling into his shoulder. “I would have been your friend.” She can hearing the longing in his voice. He’s still lonely, even now, “I would have made you hideous paintings and driven you up the wall by talking all the time and I would have liked you very much, but I’d never have admitted it.”

He imagines little Reba like a talking machine and he knows he wouldn’t have minded, because he’d have someone to talk with, someone to care about him and that would have been glorious. The little girl to whom he showed his penis wasn’t like Reba and he’s sure he wouldn’t go with something like that to her if he had met her early. Perhaps… she should have been there way, way before that event. “I’d have liked that.” Dolarhyde kisses the top of her head and continues stroking it. He’d have liked all of that and more. He’d have kept her paintings like gold, something he’d still treasure to this day. And when she says she’d have liked him very much, how different his life would have been if she was there. He hums at that, because there’s not much he can say, simply because the answer would have been ‘and I’d have liked you too’.

“You only say that now because you didn’t know me,” She teases softly, his fingers weaving through her hair slowly lulling her to sleep, “Give it a day or two, you’d have tossed rocks at me or kicked me off the swingset like little boys do. I’d have driven you crazy.” Even as she says it, Reba knows it isn’t true. His hum affirms it. She would have been his friend, she doesn’t doubt it. Her mother had always told her she was kind, though that kindness was touched with a streak of determination that seemed to steel it.

It’s interesting because given his traumatic childhood, perhaps he’d made worse things at her, but then again, he probably wouldn’t due to the fact that she’d insist on being friends with him. And he’d have fallen for her charm, because for a boy that’s been thirsty for love for so many years, her warmth would have been very welcomed. “I doubt it.”

Where has this woman been his entire life?

“And I would have punched anyone who ever said anything about you.” Even now she would. Reba thinks of the whisperings of the other employees and her stomach knots with anger. She had never cared for it before, even when she overheard it, but never again. They’re bored and they mean no harm, but Francis is something to be treated with kindness and care and even love.

A faint smile crosses his mouth at her mentioning beating someone and before it vanishes away, the man lifts her hand to rest it over his mouth so she can feel him smiling, just because he knows she likes it. “Would you get in trouble for me?” he asks softly, and such a duo they’d have been. But no, boys have to stand up for themselves, and if she would have done that he’d be a pussy and everybody would have laughed at him. He forces his smile to remain but slowly vanishes because that’d have made things even worse for the boy he was.

A smile slowing spreads over her features as he takes her hand, no doubt mirroring his own. He’s smiling-, he’s smiling because of her now, and he wants her to see. It tugs at her heart and she carefully traces her fingers over his mouth and lips, further memorizing the feel of his smile. “Of course I would have.” She snorts softly, a hint of mischief appearing in her smile, “I’d get in trouble for you now.” But Reba feels his muscles tense and she knows he’s forcing the gesture; the tender authenticity of it is fading. She doesn’t say a word, doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable, but she wonders what she had said to caused it. He’s growing distant again, fading into that silent, thoughtful place that no doubt provides him safety. There’s a safety in silence for him, she understands that.

Oh but he will get in deep trouble for her, indeed. He is aware of it because he knows his nature and how he will keep a very close eye on those who will attempt to tear her away from him. He’s going to be extra careful in that sense. Because she is **_his_**. And no one touches what is his.

In just twenty four hours, he has reached to that determination. He’s really, really fucked. It takes him a while to get the implication of their kiss in the deeper sense. If he was a believer, he’d say it was a miracle, but his beliefs reside somewhere else and despite how much The Dragon hates her, he believes she is some sort of divine gift that’s been delivered to him, doesn’t matter where she comes from. She’s a gift. His gift.

His, his, his.

_Mine, mine, mine._

Reba pauses, voice softer. “I don’t want you to be lonely, not anymore. I will try and make you happy.”

Happiness. A companion. What happened with the world for him to have all that together at once? Does he deserve such kindness? No. He doesn’t. He was meant to be alone and transform others. Dolarhyde closes his eyes because he can foresee the Dragon reprimanding at him as soon as he returns back home. “Okay.” If life’s sweet like this, he’d have liked to have one to begin with. But it’s too late now, he’s meant for Greater things. “I’ll cook for you,” he suggests just to change the topic and to also move because he’s not used to be this comfortable for too long.

It doesn’t feel right.

She blinks at his suggestion, but grins a moment later. “I’d really like that. It’d be a nice change.” She leans her head and playfully nips at his collarbone, “I’m glad you kissed me, Francis.” I’m glad you wanted to sleep with me, that you’re here now. With that, she gently tugs the blankets back and swings her legs from the bed. It’s chilly, not having him close and the cool air against her skin, and she carefully makes her way over to the dresser. Fingers expertly reach into a drawer, rubbing over the fabrics to tell them apart as she slips on a shirt and shorts. “Let’s not let that wine go to waste,” She flashes a smirk over her shoulder, counting the steps back towards the doorway.

The man gets his underwear and pants on and follows her to the kitchen to prepare the pasta. He looks at the kitchen in detail. Everything seems to be set in a specific place at hand’s reach and it’s logical considering that she needs a routine to follow without a pair of eyes to guide her. The man picks the ingredients, flour, salt, eggs, everything to make the dough and begins to work on it over the counter, looking over his shoulder at her from time to time to check her out. She opens her mouth to offer him help, but a moment later she hears him searching about for ingredients and grins. It’s normally considered optimal to act coy or that sort of nonsense on a first date, and part of her whispers not to grin so widely, but normalcy be damned.  Nothing about this date is normal because nothing about them is normal. Francis is an enigma, the most beautiful wonder she’s ever known, and he can see her smile. Yes, he can see how happy she is, see the joy radiating in every pore of her.

A strange idea crosses his mind and once the mix is fairly put together, Dolarhyde takes her small hands to ‘aid’ him in stretching and kneading it with her hands. His large frame leans against her back as his cheek is close to hers, arms enveloping Reba from behind to work on the dough.His large hands guide and wrap around her own and he’s close again, the warmth of his chest seeping through his shirt into her back. It’s messy, and Reba laughs as a poorly placed hand results in a small cloud of flour rising up into her face. She glances over her shoulder and nuzzles her face into his shirt to try and clean it off a bit. He takes the opportunity to look at the curves of her cheeks and her bright smile, seeking for his comfort. He never imagined his body would be the home of such display of emotions.

And if her gaze could capture her emotion, her eyes would be shining.

He’s never done this in his life but he has seen it in movies and it seemed easy but it’s not. Art imitates life, right? And such idiotic gesture seems off but it’s what he thinks may make people happy. Because if it works in the movies, it must be fine. His hands can’t coordinate with hers and it’s messy but fun none the less, and without wanting it, the action cracks a smile upon his features.

_You’re making a fool out of yourself._

“I’m sorry if this is stupid,” he comments softly against her ear. It looks so tender that he fights the urge to bite it. Her blood would run down her neck and taint her shirt and she’d scream in pain for him. Instead, he simply stares at the perfect neck and hides his nose behind it, nuzzling against the birth line of her hair.

“It’s not stupid! It’s-,” She pauses gently, voice growing softer, “This is the happiest I’ve been in a very long time, Francis.” Oh, how he’s already managed to put together all the missing pieces of her, find the cracks and fill them. “I’m sorry if I’m terrible at this.”

“You’re not terrible.” The man swallows and tries to say something that would make it sound better. “I’m awful at it,” he concedes and doesn’t ignore the fact that he’s making her happy, that she looks full of life because of him. He, the ruthless Being who destroys lives in a single night and could kill her in two seconds. He opens his mouth to say something but stops. No, this is nothing in comparison to what he felt for Grandmother. He can’t say it.

_You’re a whore, you let her use you like a fucking cheap sexual toy._

She flashes a grin that shows she’s very clearly not sorry. Her fingers carefully move to a drawer and withdraw a wine opener. “Do you want me to open it while you finish up?”

“Okay,” he simply answers before picking up a knife to cut the pasta strings.

A thought occurs to her and she breaks into laughter again, leaning on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his forehead. “I’m sorry I didn’t awkwardly swing by your desk or spill coffee on you or something sooner at work.”

“Maybe it wouldn’t have been the same,” he muses before moving to one of the cabinets to pick up a pan for the noodles. It’s quite of a cryptic reply for something that’s not meant to be taken like that, but his entire speech with the rest of the mortals is defined by misunderstandings so, another one won’t hurt anyone. “I’m sorry beforehand if dinner is a failure.” Change the topic.

“Shut up, D,” she snorts, and there’s amusement in her voice, “I’m sure you’re great at it. Besides, I can’t exactly tell what the pasta looks like, can I? It’ll be perfect to me, don’t worry.” Reba carefully rests the pad of her thumb over the cork to mentally map it, slipping the wine opener into it. She turns it deeper into the cork, brow furrowing at his next remark.

But he decides to bring up the topic, out of nowhere, because there’s an idea hammering in his head. “If I wasn’t there, perhaps you’d have had a boyfriend.” In other words, a dead man.

“A boyfriend?” Reba pauses, struggling to understand the hidden meaning behind his words. There seems to be some sort of meaning shadowed in what he says and while it may be off putting to most, Reba finds she’s grown very quickly to like it. “Maybe.”

The grip on the knife that’s dividing the dough, tightens. The idea of meeting her only to find out that she’s taken would have made him furious and he doesn’t know what he’d have done. Kill the bastard, chop him in many pieces until he’s done unloading his fury on his body and then throw the remains to the river. But that man doesn’t exist and so, Dolarhyde can breathe normally and be right in the place he is in this moment, living the situation with her in peace. Peace, such a funny little word.

She sets the wine bottle down carefully on the table, voice casual, “Yeah-, maybe I would have had a boyfriend,” Reba slowly makes her way over to him, wrapping her arms around his waist yet again, “And thought he was great, but then I’d asked you to help me with the elevator buttons or something like that, and I’d have liked you.” A hand moves to his front, slipping beneath his shirt to stroke teasingly over the patch of hair beneath his navel, fingers tracing small patterns.

Her words then rivulet on his senses as her hand descends and his Adam’s Apple bobs up and down at the sensation of being touched just like that, so intimately in such a short time since they met. She may feel a slight tension that slowly fades as she speaks, because her voice is the anesthesia to his fears, even if her touches are meant to soothe his instincts to push away.

“I’d have talked to you, and talked to you more, and realized I wanted to keep talking to you. Then, I’d have broken up with him because I wanted to kiss you and touch your face, and I’d have hope you’d want to kiss me back and maybe even sleep with me.” Reba lightly nudges his hip with her hand, half turning him to face her. Dolarhyde’s lips part at the proximity of her hands with his groin and leaves the dough, looking down at the woman, keeping his hands off her figure because he’s used to torture himself. He’ll get hard soon and if that happens, they won’t eat at all, not that he minds that anyways. But he can’t show himself as a sexual predator. For her, he must be a regular ‘guy’, someone who wouldn’t kill a fly.

Her hand moves to rest against his chest, a thoughtful smile appearing. “We’d have found each other, somehow.  We would have found a way to be together, Francis.” The universe would have pulled them together, she doesn’t doubt. She doesn’t understand it, not yet, and if she thinks on it too long she’ll grow dizzy, but a deep, intangible part of her knows this is fate.

“I’d have wanted to be with you, anyways.” He can’t say he’d have respected her space because he obviously wouldn’t have, so that’s the best answer he can provide.

She leans forward to kiss his chest, lips pressing against it for a long moment before she returns her attention back to the wine bottle. It’s a bit difficult, having to regain her grip on it, but she manages to pull the cork.  Something occurs to her then and Reba questions gently, “Everyone at work says you have beautiful eyes, what color are they? I just realized I don’t know.”

“Blue,” he answers shortly. A beautiful shade of aquamarine and some gray shades that come as the only inheritance he ever received from Michael Trevane and his family. Sometimes Dolarhyde thinks about how it would have been to have a father figure in the house. How different his life would have been.

“Blue.” She grows still for a moment, brow furrowing in thought as a slow, gentle smile creeps onto her lips. “I can remember blue. Or, or at least what I think is blue. It makes me think of rain, and-, and a bike I had. Blue is a good color, it…it seems soft to me, at least it feels that way, but beautiful. It’s whole and gentle.” Reba flushes slightly, biting the corner of her lip to hide a grin. “I’m sorry if that sounds stupid. I haven’t exactly seen it for a good long while now.” A soft pause. “Yes, you must be very beautiful if you have blue eyes, Francis, I think they must suit you.”Her blush increases all the more because she’s afraid she must sound incredibly stupid, going on and on about some color he sees every day and therefore takes for granted, but most of all because she wants to sleep with him again. She wants to kiss below his navel and hear him moan again and feel the heat of him against her mouth, to focus solely on him because no one has, she knows that. She wants to do this terribly and she shifts her weight quickly, working to focus on anything else.

Blue is cold. Piercing gaze, dark pupils against the blue sea of his eyes that can reflect the moon during those nights when he massacres lives for his Becoming. And she loves his eyes, even if she can’t see them. Beautiful. That word used for him again and it sounds like a joke, only that he’s getting an idea by now that she seems to be serious when she says it. Still, the concept is so alien that he can’t believe it. “I like your eyes. Black is one of my favorite colors.”

_Who the fuck cares, cunt face?_

She smile and remains silent, perhaps considering his words, perhaps judging him. “Could you grab me the glasses? They’re in the second cupboard from the left, first shelf.” Reba moves to set down plates and silverware, fingers counting out their respective places.

The noodles are finally in the water and he slowly moves them with a fork so they won’t glue to each other. And a thought crosses his mind. “Was your father blind?”

“No, he wasn’t. I…, I got sick when I was 7. The doctors said there’s a gene for it in my family, we’re more prone to it or-, or at least a lot of difficult with our vision, and I got better but my eyes didn’t.” She pauses and shrugs, setting down a fork. “It doesn’t bother me, really, not anymore. It did for a long time, but it’s part of me now and if I hate it, then I’m hating myself.”

And what is it he hates about himself? Reba wants to kiss him again, memorize his body under her fingers and heal every wound he thinks belongs to him. The blush returns and she focuses intently on finishing the silverware.

She’s strong, because he’s not sure he’d have her attitude towards life. He’d be extremely bitter and probably worse than he is now. He’d be dead, no doubt. “I think you are-”

_What?_

He closes his mouth before he can make a terrible mistake and the Dragon gets furious with him as usual. Dolarhyde tries to work with something but fails so ends up with the first thing that comes to his mind. “… clever.”

_That was weak, just like you._

Reba finds she holds her breath at his pause, strangely nervous for his reply. He doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean, Francis Dolarhyde, and when he speaks there is worth to it. _Clever_. Her stomach flutters and Reba grins shyly. If she wasn’t already addicted to him, she’d worry for how much she cares to hear his opinion, for how easily he can bring a smile to her face. “I…I always think I’m tripping into everything,” Reba confesses, “I don’t think anyone’s ever told me I’m not. I worry, sometimes, that people are laughing at me. That-, when I trip or…or I can’t make it around something easy for them like, a pillar or stairs, that they’re laughing at me.” It’s a confession she’s told to no one because it’s a sign of weakness, of her own vulnerability, and in turn she loathes it. “But then I remember that what people think doesn’t matter.”

“I don’t know many blind people but you move with ease everywhere and that’s impressive.” Such a beautiful conversation. He ruined the mood with his vocal ineptitude, with the spice of his speech issues that is put on display when he’s more nervous. Logically, it would be his turn to talk about himself but he of course, avoids the topic because he imagines she’d realize by now that talking about his deformity isn’t a very pleasant for him. And if she doesn’t know, she does now. The fears of a world mocking them due to their differences with the rest isn’t strange to the man. He empathizes with her in that matter, even if she doesn’t have to carry a cross that drives people away due to his ugliness. Perhaps that’s why she hates to be treated as if she was made out of crystal. “If they laugh at you, they don’t deserve your kindness.” That’s been his motto his whole life, and that’s what made him into the cold hearted, ruthless killer and hermit, the antisocial beast he is. But she doesn’t deserve the cruelty of others. Then again, sometimes he thinks he didn’t deserve it too. Most of the time he thinks he did because he was born, to begin with.

“They don’t mean any harm, not most of the time.” Reba pauses and weaves her fingers through his, a defensive sort of gesture, as if her slender fingers might somehow be able to protect his hand. People had been cruel to him, the things they had said at work. They had meant it all. “If people aren’t kind to you, Francis,” her voice grows gentler, fingers lacing all the tighter, “then they don’t deserve to know how amazing you are. I’m glad you talked to me and-, and I’m glad that you were kind and you’re here now.”

She’s so wrong and he can’t answer to that because everything that would come out from his mouth would ruin her speech. This is all ridiculous. This is a big mistake and another part of him doesn’t want to stop because living never felt so good. So this must be normalcy, or the closest to it. It’s strange and scary.

He uses the only red sauce he found in the cabinets to mix with the pasta before serving it on the table. It’s not the best because she lacks of some aromatic herbs to make it tastier but who cares, he’s hungry. Dolarhyde picks her plate and fills it before doing the same with his own. He inhales in the glass of wine she has served for him and thinks of how atypical this is for him. How everything looks like some fantasy from his young days when he still had hopes of finding someone who could listen or would like to talk to him. “I hope you like it.”

“I can’t believe you were playing like you were going to be awful, Francis, this is fantastic.” Reba follows it with a sip of wine, unashamedly beaming now. “Thank you, for this.” **_Thank you for kissing me and touching my hair and carrying me to bed. Thank you for your shy pauses and awkward words and rare smiles._** Reba reaches out to touch his hand with her free one. It’s a bit of an awkward reach, admittedly, but she wants to do touch him while they share this, have some point of contact for them to share.

“You’re welcome.” He wasn’t expecting engaging into something like this at all. Dolarhyde allows her to touch him once more, and his thumb and index finger move slightly, just an inch to stroke her hand. A simple way to inform her that yes, he is pleased too.

She continues eating, suddenly aware of how hungry she had been, and the wine makes her glow and everything is here, everything is in place. “This is perfect, Francis.” It’s simple, everything they’ve shared, but simplicity is something rare for them both, to be sought after. Her fingers lace with his and another sip of wine follows. “May I touch your face again, after we’ve eaten? I’d like to kiss you.”

He begins to suspect that she likes his face because it’s the only way she can figure him out, which is the obvious for any normal person, but for Dolarhyde, that has to be written down on paper for him to compute the idea. “Okay.”

The wine warms her senses and she’s perfectly, utterly content, full and happy. Yes, this hadn’t been the day she expected, the past two days had been nothing she’d expected, but Reba couldn’t think of a time she’d been so happy, so alive.

When he’s done with his dish, and without warning, Dolarhyde waits until she finishes drinking her glass to pull her unceremoniously from her chair to sit on his lap and bring her head down for a kiss, an assault to her senses. The sweetness is gone and the demanding nature of his spirit takes over, wanting to have it all from her. He’s an animal. He takes what is his and that’s it, no middle ground.

She sucks in a breath of air, blinking before carefully settling herself into his lap. She doesn’t want him to think he’s gone and frightened her, or insulted her, and for that Reba quickly leans down to give him a soft kiss, “I am very lucky to have you, Francis Dolarhyde,” she states simply, earnestly, and then her lips trail to his neck. He’s burning against her mouth and she ventures far enough to adding a small bite to his skin. Nothing rough, just a brush of her teeth against her skin, and she leans back in his lap to begin kissing his chest.

The bite forces him to let his head fall backwards. Her teeth, so white and perfect, so different from his special set. Her bite immediately gets him hard and his member twitches at the thought of reciprocating with some of his own biting, but then again he doesn’t want to draw blood and chunk parts of her away from her body. He wants her just the way she is, and spoiling such beautiful flesh would be a pity.

_Crunch, crunch, crunch._

“I want to do this for you,” She murmurs, voice thick with wanting, and she carefully moves from his lap. Reba nudges his legs apart, settling herself beneath them on her knees and works to do undo his pants, “Because I want this to be about you. I want you to believe how much I want you, how handsome and good I think are you.” She leans in to kiss just below his stomach through his shirt, voice soft. “Let me show you, Francis.”

She goes south and his lips tremble, his eyes shoot open and Dolarhyde looks down at the scene, her sweet lips caressing his chest and stopping at his bulge with his evident erection. He could beg, he could moan loudly but he won’t. It’s weakness and he’s been showing her enough of it so far. His chest heaves up and down slightly faster at the situation and his hand reaches down to brush some strands of her curls away from her face, wanting to look at her in detail.

Her mouth on him. Just like he has dreamed.

“Yes.” He doesn’t care if his sibilant speech ruins it, he’s pure fire and that, of course, clouds his judgment. Reba gently takes a hold of his fingers and presses them lightly to her lips, and his ‘yes’ is all she needs to temper her courage. Eager to help, the man undoes his belt and pulls the zipper of his pants down to expose his hard flesh, still covered by his underwear. She hears him undressing and leans forward, kissing the inside of his thigh. His skin all but sears her lips and she carefully moves her fingers to tug his boxers down. He’s having difficulties to breath and yet he knows he can control it. But now? Quite difficult. This is new, and yet another experience he’s never had before, with the exception of prostitutes. But this is Reba McClane, and she’s far from one. She’s the total opposite and the fact that she wants to do it drives him wild with want.

It’s stupid that she’s so nervous, she’s already gone and slept with him and he’s touched and known more of her than anyone else, but this-, this is different somehow. This is for him and him alone. Reba gently kisses his thigh before a hand moves to slowly, tentatively stroke over him. She repeats the motion, nuzzling against his skin before shifting to kiss the tip of his member.

“I’m sorry,” She murmurs embarrassedly before she can stop herself, “I’ve-, I haven’t done this before but I want to. With you.”

This is entirely different from the prostitutes he’s been with, with their skilled mouths that have sucked so many men before. “It’s fine,” he answers spreading his legs a little wider for her.

And at that, Reba lovingly takes him into her mouth. It’s uncomfortable, unfamiliar at first, but she tells herself to relax, to focus on him. She begins to move her head now, taking more of him in as she grows accustomed to the sensation. It’s…strangely intimate, she decides, but welcome and not unenjoyable. Reba finds a rhythm that suits her, slow but purposeful, tender even. This is a gift to him, for him, and she works up the courage to lightly scratch her nails down his thighs. She pauses, lifting her head up from him as if making sure she’s doing alright.

Making sure they’re alright in this, that they’re together.

It’s bliss. Her hot mouth around his hardness makes him swallow hard and he reminds himself that this is not his hand doing the job but a beautiful woman who’s worshiping every inch of his body, as she has previously shown to him. Dolarhyde feels powerful, above the regular man and extremely lucky, if luck exists at all in this world. A low groan escapes his lips as she builds a rhythm and he fights back the urge to thrust upwards because he knows he’ll hurt her. She’s capable of waking in him such instincts that have never been considered before because fucking a woman’s mouth, the rare occasions in which he had, is easy, but being Reba, it feels dirty.

_Such a dirty boy, I’ll cut it if you do it again._

His groan sends a shiver down her spine and she knows she’s doing well now, that he’s enjoying this. It’s the encouragement she needs to settle her nerves and Reba finally allows herself to enjoy this, to enjoy the warmth and feel of him. It’s strange to feel so wholly in control, given the sheer strength and dominance Francis could so easily reveal if he cared to, because Reba is well aware she’s a slip of a thing in comparison, but god, does she like it. She remembers him kissing her, his calloused fingertips touching the most intimate places on her body, and the sheer, perfect pleasure given when he is inside of her. It’s enough for her to increase her tempo, determined to give him as much of the want he stirs up in her.

His chest tightens as she sucks and his lips part, feeling her warm tongue against his sex. Losing control, he moans in the silence of the kitchen.

It’s impossible to ignore his moan and that makes her wet. She flushes before she can help it, thinking of the sight of them. Still, a soft moan of her own escapes her and Reba feels it echo through her mouth, around him. She wants to pause, to stand up and straddle him and have him inside of her, but no-, this is about him. What she can’t make him believe through her words, she can show him through deeds.

A hand trails up his hip until she manages to find an arm, reaching for his hand and lacing it with her own. Yes, this is him, wholly and utterly for him. It spurs her on and Reba takes him deeper in her mouth, free fingers trailing up and down his thigh, stroking over his hipbone. She lifts her mouth very slightly for a pause to softly say his name, lips forming the familiar weight of it, before returning her attentions to him, swifter now. 

The idea had been abhorrent to her in college, having to kneel or lean over and blindly offer up her mouth to some idiot who no doubt was secretly amused by the novelty of having a blind woman give him head, but now, with him, with shy, careful, hurt, good Francis Dolarhyde, she enjoys it. Every moan, every flinch and tremble, is from her.

If he had any doubt that the woman was fantastic, that doubt is now gone for he has never had anyone to willingly suck him without being paid, anyone whose interest is to make him reach his orgasm for the mere pleasure of providing something to make him feel cherished. He wants to ask her to not stop, to go faster and harder, but he fights back his words. He’s in no position to demand anything.

It’s difficult to sit still with her attentions, and the man closes his eyes tight, getting a hard grip of his chair to do something with his hands. He’s never been provided something so sweet in his life, but it feels dirty for her to do it, as much as he loves it. She’s pure in his eyes and he doesn’t want to taint her.

_She’s not a delicate flower, you idiot._

She may not, but he draws to the conclusion that part of his pleasure is to give some to her as well. So he’ll pay her back some day, because if it feels so good for men, it must be for women too. At least that’s what the whore who taught him said.

Dolarhyde’s hips undulate with her movements and the man reaches down to pinch his thigh to punish himself for this, because he’s not worth it. This is too much too soon, he’s being spoiled and he knows that nothing good ever lasts. But his desire wins over his self-torture and the man lets out a loud moan when she increases her speed. Harder, faster, deeper. His member is over sensitive and he tries to articulate a word to warn her but it’s too late and he comes into her mouth. He suddenly feels the guilt reaching his brain at the action because this is the first time she does it and he’s sure that it’s a disgusting sensation. He climaxes and hisses at the release, wanting nothing else but to pull out to free her from this torment.

She’s caught off guard and it’s admittedly difficult at first, and fights her instincts to pull away or choke, but her hand reaches for his thigh to steady herself.

“Re-” He pauses. He hasn’t said her name since the moment they first met and he’s not going to do it now. It’s attachment, and the only thing that comes with that is hurt when they decide to leave you. Just like his father and mother did, like Grandmother did, like Queen Mother did. There is no love for Dolarhyde, none that he deserves. His strong fingers stroke her hair softly, his hand slightly shaking, and he feels a mix of calm and fear running down his spine. “Thank you,” he finally says, in a lame attempt to sound normal.

Clutching him tightly, Reba’s eyes widen as she hears her name, or at least part of it. He tried to say it. She moves her mouth from him, wiping her lips with the corner of her wrist and inhaling to catch her breath. His fingers in her hair soothe her and she leans her head against his thigh, closing her eyes and breathing in once again.

He almost said her name.

Reba kisses his thigh tenderly after a long moment, a soft smile appearing on her lips. “You’re welcome,” She murmurs, “I hope I did alright.”

The man’s cheeks feel hot and his breathing returns to normal as he holds her in his lap. She’s so open and speaks her mind about absolutely everything that the attitude scares him, because she’s diametrically opposite to him. The part of him that thinks they will never remain together kicks back and he’s suddenly depressed, thinking about the moment when she’ll leave him. Dolarhyde allows her to rest against him. “You did.” It’s not the best encouraging phrase one would say about fellatio performance but it’s basic and simple. Works.

“You can help me practice to get better,” Reba allows herself a shy hint of a laugh, nuzzling her face gently against his neck, beaming at his next words.

Reba glances up at him, smile growing wider now, and carefully readjusts his pants and belt, fingers finding what all she needs. Once he’s redressed, or she’s at least fairly certain she did her best, she stands and settles back in his lap once more. Arms reach around his broad shoulders and neck, face resting in the space between. “I liked it when you almost said my name,” she admits quietly, gently so as not to make him uncomfortable, “I know you don’t like to use it. I won’t ask you to, I promise, but I wanted you to know that it sounded lovely when you said it.”

He could run his fingers over her arm lovingly, kiss her forehead, anything, but the idea of almost saying her name floats like a bad memory. She loves it, of course and he can’t go against her wishes. Again. “I like your name.”

_You are sick._

It’s the truth. Her name has been melting in his mouth progressively as time passes even if he mentioned it a couple of times in private. Reba. **_Rrrrreebbbbbaaaaaa._** That first night, with his hand on his cock and how pleasing it was. What’s so lovely for him to say her name? His deformity makes him talk like an imbecile and even if there’s no s in her name, it sounds wrong. Everything that comes from his mouth sounds wrong.

“I thought it was awful, when I was younger. Stupid plain Rebecca, but Reba suits me better, I think.”

It’s amazing what a name can do, and what it has done to him since his childhood. He got used to be called cunt face his entire life and Francis by those who considered him an object to move from one spot to the other. Dolarhyde remembers with bitterness ‘little possum’ and his heart aches at the sweet sound that came from his grandmother’s cooker. “I like it,” he states, lips against her hair, blowing it lightly with his breath.

Smiling lightly at his remark, she nestles tighter against him. “When I was 10, I thought Rebecca was so insufferably dull I tried to get people to call me something else. I liked Shakespeare a lot, I had picture books of all of his plays, and I decided I was going to call myself Cordelia of all things.” She snorts lightly, cheeks flushing at the memory. “She was always so pretty in the pictures, Cordelia. I still remember some of the pages, if I try very very hard. I’m sure they’re nowhere near correct, but Macbeth always looked so scary to me.”

“It’s just a name. It doesn’t matter.” Dolarhyde has a very strange conception of identifying people, even though a name’s a basic tool for such thing, he divides them by their characteristics, and names are just accessory. “You matter,” he concludes with the certainty that he hasn’t been rude but rather charming. Something that’s absolutely out his regular behavior. She brings different aspects of his personality he hasn’t explored before.

There are many things he hasn’t explored before Reba.

‘Before Reba.’ It feels like there’s a timeline of events there, but the man brushes that thought off.

It’s a strange thing to consider, that something as primary and wholly vital as a name may not matter. It’s the first thing one is taught. It provides a purpose, a syllable or two that somehow conveys identity. She opens her mouth to reply that names must at least matter a little, but his next statement is enough to have her bite her lip to hold back a smile. You matter. His own description of himself, while admittedly odd, is profound in that strange, soft way that only he can manage. “That’s enough for me,” She states quietly, words touched with a quiet authenticity.

Every strong, strange inch of him is enough. He’s a mystery, Francis Dolarhyde, and for every moment of clarity he offers there is another moment of confusion. For every parcel of understanding, some new question appears. He is wholly and utterly unlike anyone, anything she’s ever known.

And she likes that.

Her mouth presses tenderly to his neck. “I like your voice. I like hearing you speak.”

“I’ve spoken with you thrice than I do in a month with anyone.” And he’s not exaggerating at all. She’s unaware of her power on him, or perhaps she is, but she’s too polite to mention it. And Dolarhyde doesn’t want to think about it or he’ll panic.

“I’m glad. I like what you have to say. You’re very smart, Francis, brilliant, even. I like hearing you speak,” Reba moves to rest her forehead against his, breathing in the familiar scent of him, “I know you don’t like to speak, and I won’t ask you to, but I want you to know I don’t think there’s anything wrong with how you speak.”

He stares into her dead eyes as she comments on his speech and he knows she’s not serious. His voice has been the object of humiliation since he was born and there’s no way anyone would like it. No, she must be lying to him. “There’s nothing special in what I say,” he replies as the air escapes from the crack on his upper lip.

A hand goes to cup his jaw again, lifting it lightly before pressing her lips softly just below his scar. “I think what you say is special. I wouldn’t lie to you, not about that, not about anything. You’re very smart and…and you notice all sorts of things other people don’t. I know you won’t believe me, but I can’t remember the last time anyone was as nice to me as you are.” **_Please believe me, please believe just a fraction of what I say._** “I know people have been cruel to you, because-, because people have been cruel to me. We’re different, Francis, and people are afraid of what’s different and it makes them cruel.” Another kiss to his deformity, this one more lingering, thoughtful. “But I think you’re perfect, if that means anything. It doesn’t have to, I-, I don’t expect it to, but I wanted you to know.”

What does she know about cruelty? How can she tell? Dolarhyde listens and looks into the nothing itself, taking in on her words. They are different, she’s right, but not for the reasons she thinks. She’s tied to mortal binds that he has cut long ago. The Entity that rules him has delivered his existence into a chase of perfection that it’s only in Dolarhyde’s hands and she ignores this. “I’m not perfect. Far from it.” The man’s palm rest down on her thigh and his index finger lightly toys with her skin. “You’re too optimistic about me.”

“I don’t-,  I won’t lie, not ever to you. I promise you that.” Reba leans her weight further into his touch. He couldn’t know how grateful she was to him, how alive he makes her feel. “And I don’t think I’m being overly optimistic, thank you.” A flash of a grin appears, earnest and bright. It wells up in her, a sudden bolt of courage, and it sends a shiver from her fingers to her toes.

Hearing about his virtues on someone else’s mouth is bizarre. It’s like a mirror of himself, accurate perhaps, deceiving too. He can see the brightness in her dark eyes when she speaks of him and the man wonders what is she truly seeing. Because as much as she explains, he can’t understand it. It’s like she’s speaking in another language. “I’m the man who sees you right now,” he muses, “nothing more, nothing less.”

With her, he’s just a man. What she needs him to be.

_You’re a piece of shit. Not even close to the shadow of a man._

She is being lied to and she gladly allows it, not doubting him for a second. What is this? What kind of emotion can drive a person to blindly trust someone else like this? She likes him, that’s clear, but to which extent? What does he actually feel for her?

_Don’t you dare think about it._

Without allowing herself to think, acting purely on instinct, Reba takes his hand from her thigh and raises it to her lips. She holds it there a moment, smile growing softer, and moves it to rest against her cheek. “Yours, if you want.”

Dolarhyde looks at his hand resting on her cheek and listens to the words of devotion, something he appreciates despite his doubts. Both strong arms curl around her frame to pull her closer and his lips meet hers in a deep kiss, one that seals the pact between them. His. Hers. And the rest of the words are nothing but a group of syllables put together to make sentences and phrases. Reba finds herself holding her breath as she waits for him to reply, wanting him to reply. Just when she’s certain she’ll be greeting with nothing but silence, his lips are on her own and she’s pulled closer into his embrace. Yes, what he can’t say he shows and this-, this is acceptance, this is acknowledgment. Agreement. What lies between them cannot be expressed with such petty elements. Her small hand trails to the back of his neck, fingers gently tracing over his shoulders and through his short hair as she returns his kiss, savoring his mouth against her own.

In a quick move, the man picks her up in his arms and makes his way upstairs again to the bedroom. Reba lets out a surprised laugh as he carries her, burying her head in his chest. He lays her with delicacy on the bed and sits beside the woman before leaning down to kiss her once more. Breaking it, he whispers against her mouth. “I’ll go down and wash the dishes. I’ll be back soon.”

 “Alright,” She nods, working to at least try and keep her shining grin from appearing too full, “If…there’s extra pillows in the downstairs closet if you want to get them when you come up.”

Another kiss before exiting the bedroom and the man makes his way downstairs to the kitchen. As he leaves, Reba rolls onto her side and presses her hand to her mouth to hold back a laugh of pure joy. She’s beaming now, equal parts thrilled and in sheer disbelief.

The house is silent and it suddenly strikes him that she’s used to the silence like him. Perhaps he’s wrong and she turns on the radio to dance while cooking or cleaning, because that’s what women do in the movies. He imagines her small figure shaking to the rhythm of the songs, her face bright with a pearly teeth smile. She is like the sun, luminous and warm.

His sun?

In his absence, a thought suddenly occurs to her and she slips from underneath the covers. She shivers, biting the corner of her lip and walks over to the window, doing her very best to keep quiet. Still for a moment to ensure she doesn’t hear him walking up the stairs, Reba pushes the window up and open. A small hand moves out into the chill and she focuses on the speed with which the snowflakes fall on her hand. A small, bright grin appears as she feels their swiftness, which means it’s surely snowing very hard.

Which means a day with him.

Dolarhyde opens the faucet to let the hot water run down on the dishes and looks around him once more, trying to imagine her on her daily life. Wake up, prepare coffee, toasts, butter, marmalade or perhaps bacon and eggs. He almost burns his hands spacing out with those thoughts and in a moment he finishes washing the dishes and cleaning the table where they dined. The man stands a moment by the chair where she took his member and stares at it, memorizing that scene.

Her closet comes next and there are many things that she evidently hardly uses due to the dust on them. The pillows are one, for example and he pats them to dust them off. The man makes his way upstairs back to where he left her and once inside, he finds her curled on her side. Perhaps she’s crying?

She hears the creak of the first step and instantly throws herself back under the blankets, unable to keep the grin from her face. Reba rolls onto her side to try and conceal it, to manage it and not look like a complete idiot. She can’t remember the last time she was this happy.

Gently, the strong man wraps an arm around her torso to lift her up and put the pillows under her frame.

Letting out a surprised laugh as he so easily shifts her, she feels the spare pillows cushioned beneath her a moment later. “Oh my god, how strong are you, D? I’m not that light.”

“I like to stay healthy.” Women he fucked before have told him the same but of course, it was all fake. Whatever comes from her mouth it feels genuine or perhaps she’s a very good actress. He can’t stop himself from judging every single move or word she says, doubt eating his mind. He wants her to touch him, travel all over the hills of muscle but he knows how it’d end and he needs to recover before anything intimate happens again.

She snorts lightly at that, fingers trailing up his torso to move over his arms. Reba half considers that there must be as much muscle in one of his arms than in the whole of her body and she traces curves and edges along his skin. “You like to keep very healthy,” She corrects with a small smile, intrigued by him. This is far more than mere health and she wonders what spurned it.

The rest of the pillows go behind him, transforming the bed into a nest. Dolarhyde pulls her close and covers both with the thick layers to keep both warm as it continues snowing outside.

As the man in the house, he knows he must protect her. That’s what Queen Mother taught him as a child. But he doesn’t need an axe. He has his bare own hands now to break necks and anything at hand that he can transform into a weapon. He can take any man down, he’s invincible and His influence helps in that. Yes, he will take care of his business tomorrow but tonight is his and his alone. “Are you comfortable?” he inquiries, pulling her against his warm chest.

Reba eagerly curls close, comfortable enough she thinks she’s all but sinking into his heat and the warmth of their shared bed. “Yes,” She smiles, a hand moving to trace over his abdomen, “Are you?” God, he’s so strong. All muscle and strength and steel to conceal what? What all does he have hidden away?

“I am.” The comfort of her body against his is nice; they fit perfectly against each other. The man takes on the luxurious color of her skin against his terribly pale one and Dolarhyde laces his fingers with hers, observing the contrast of their hands. If those hands could touch him covered in blood after a Transformation, if she could only see his true face. But it’s impossible. She’s not ready.

Will she ever be?

Reba knows he’s allowed her to see a glimpse and what fractures he’s granted her access to, she wants to mend.

“If it keeps snowing,” She states gently, pressing her lips into his shoulder, “Would you like to go on a walk with me tomorrow? There’s a little park just a block or two away. They say it’s beautiful when it snows and I-,” Reba squirms a bit, grinning shyly, “It feels beautiful, as stupid as it sounds. There’s a little pond and sometimes you can hear kids skating on it, and their laughter.” She bites the corner of her lip to hold back a laugh. “Tripped into a snowbank there last year like a complete idiot.”

The idea of a walk with her is a novelty, mostly because he knows he’ll have to be careful and they’ll have to walk slower. “Sure.” It will be a strange experience, something he’s getting used to because she’s a whole different world. He doesn’t take change very well and since he met her, everything’s a challenge he’ll have to sort by pretending to act normal. It’s all a show. “We could bring a thermo with hot coffee with us. It’s cold outside.” At least he’ll have something to do when the awkward silences happen.

“That’d be perfect,” She wishes then that she could see him. She wishes she could see.  It’s a strange thought, one she never lingers on, hasn’t for years, but Reba can’t quite cast it off. Yes, she would like to see him, to see his scar and smile and the blue eyes that are apparently breathtaking. “I’ll make you breakfast before we go. Can’t promise it’ll be as delicious as your pasta, but I’ll do my best.”

Not many have made something special for him in a long, long time. Something as simple as breakfast can mean the world to him and he must make himself sure to appreciate it, as much as his other side is saying that no, it’s nothing worth his attention. He’s curious as to how it feels like to experience this domesticity with someone he barely knows. But for some reason it’s like he’s known her his entire life. “That’d be good.” And he wants to kiss her because he’s discovering that it’s addictive. A dangerous addiction.

But it feels so, so good.

“Alright,” she smiles, pleased to know he’s not terribly off put by the idea of it. It’s impossibly idyllic, hopelessly romantic, the image of a new couple (are they a couple now?), holding hands and walking through the snow, laughing and nervously smiling at each other. It’s normally the sort of thing that would churn her stomach, but she remembers she’s blind and he’s far from a conversationalist and whatever normal might be considered, together they shatter it.

She grins before she can help herself.

Dolarhyde wonders if this happens with all the couples out there, or it’s just a fantasy that’s played in the movies again and again. She probably likes the idea and that’s good. “Would you have liked to have siblings?” he asks out of the blue. Because he wonders how she deals with loneliness, since apparently it’s the natural state in which she lives.

Reba blinks at the unexpected inquiry, biting the corner of her lip in thought. “Yes,” She finally states, clearly considering the question, “When I was younger. I…I guess I felt bad that my parents wouldn’t have someone normal, you know? They…they were never going to see me play sports like the other kids, or-, or didn’t have to worry about little things, like making sure the house was safe for me. I think I wanted things to be easier for them and-, and if they’d have had another kid, they could have known a bit of what it was like to be normal.”

The man sighs deeply. “You are normal.” Hell if he knows. And there has to be something to tell her in order to believe him. But what? He can’t expose himself too much nor leave it like this. She must know it, she must…

“You’re beautiful.”

And it’s a confession that will cost him the wrath of the Dragon but it was worth the trouble. Because she has told him that a million times by now and he doesn’t believe it, but she’s not him and he’s more than sure that she’ll take it to heart because she’s pure. Purer than any other human being he’s ever met.

Reba holds back a laugh at his next comment, growing more and more fond of what she now categorizes as Francis compliments, meaning they’re the sort of thing that could easily be considered rude, or awkward at best, but from his mouth they’re the sweetest thing she’s ever heard. However, her grin fades at his next words, features softening. He’d said it before, and she believed him then, but in had been in the heat of their passion and now, it was a genuine observation. He didn’t say things he didn’t mean, or didn’t think worth saying. Reba knows he thinks she’s beautiful and takes his hand all the tighter for it, finding her words fail her. She’s always been pretty Reba, or “hot” Reba to hear the mutterings of the other men at Gateway but beautiful? Beautiful is new, beautiful means something when he says it.

“A family should love you for what you are, not what you look like.” It’s one of the strongest sentences he’s ever said in his life, one that’s been hammering in his head his entire life but never got the chance to say it. And to let it out scares him because he’s waiting for his mother’s or grandmother’s scolding and physical and verbal violence. But that never comes. They are gone. He’s safe. He’s safe with her.

“Yes,” She finally states after a long moment, ‘Your family should always love you. Appearances shouldn’t matter when it comes to love.” Her jaw firm. “It doesn’t matter.” Her heart aches for him then, stomach twisting. Someone has hurt him, his family has hurt him for him to say such a thing. He doesn’t say things that don’t need to be said. She wants to sit up and ask him for names, to demand who held the knife that cut so many invisible wounds into his skin, who tore at his heart and hurt him. Her eyes are weak but her claws are sharp, she’s never been more certain of anything in her life.

“The lack of love can mark you for life,” he observes as he speaks against her ebony hair, looking out the window. The whiteness of the outside contrasts greatly with the comfort and warmth inside the house. The man kisses the top of her head and rubs her palm with his thumb gently, recognizing her, memorizing every inch, every moment. Because he knows this won’t last. Can’t last.

Reba determines she has to say something to that, that no matter what is to come between them she must speak nor she’ll always remember her silence. “But love can also fix things,” She replies firmly but softly, fingers tracing over his chest slowly, “That’s when you know you’ve found it, when the things you never had don’t matter anymore. When it makes you feel whole and you forget that it made you hurt, and you don’t care that it did because it doesn’t now.” Reba suddenly grows quiet. “That’s-, that’s what I think it’d be like, anyway, what it should be like. I realized that if I didn’t want people to feel sorry for me, then I couldn’t feel sorry for myself. That’s all I was going, thinking like that.” Reba’s fingers brush up his neck to cup his jaw, a thumb tracing over the edge of his lip. “You don’t feel sorry for me.” A long careful pause. “Did you have siblings? I know-, you said you were lonely, but…if you don’t want to talk about it, we don’t have to.”

“I’m an only child.” It’s useless to tell her about his stepsiblings. It will only bring discomfort when this is supposed to be a conversation that’s actually comfortable for both. And he can’t talk about any member of his family because it only sends him to a dark, nightmare-ish story. If she had siblings, ‘normal’ ones, they’d convince her to dump him like trash.

Instead of hurt, she can give him peace. For that, Reba lightly rolls on top of him and feels up to his face, cupping his cheek. “Francis...” Without a single doubt, she leans in to kiss him. It’s a deep kiss, but borne more out of care than want, because whatever has happened to him she cannot mend, but she can give him tenderness.

The man entwines his legs with hers creating a picture painted with the most perfect palette in life. He answers the kiss eagerly, brushing a few curly strands of hair behind her ear for better access and closes his eyes. Yes, this must be what people call connection. This has to be special. It already is.

He doesn’t dare to break it and his hands move up to her waist to trace her ribs with his fingertips. He could push her against a wall and break them with his bare fists and she wouldn’t stand a chance against his strength. That’s what He would do, but he is aware that the struggle is real and that he’d never have the heart to do it.

_Because you’re a coward and a cunt._

The man’s hands move down to her hips, helping her to remain in her place during the kiss which he doesn’t break until he realizes that they need air. He tries to formulate something to say but he’s hypnotized by her, drugged, lost. “Do it again,” he requests almost with a whisper in his baritone voice.

She smiles into the kiss, all but melting against him as his strong hands trace over her. She too sucks in a small breath of air, features shining brightly while he holds her steady against him. His request is so simple, so perfectly and wholly and utterly him, that Reba can’t help but grin. “Francis,” she murmurs, simply to get used to the weight and feel of his name on her tongue. Reba cups his face with both hands and kisses him back. His lips are the sweetest thing she’s ever known and she can swear she tastes a hint of wine on them. They’re entwined limbs and careful hands and she’s never been more content in her life, felt more alive. She gently opens her mouth to him, tongue finding his and slowly stroking it. Still, it’s not as much of a kiss to invoke desire as it is a prayer, a thank you to something, someone, anything really, that somehow in this strange, dark world she’s managed to find him.

They’ve found each other.


	4. Chapter 4

“But love can also fix things,” She states firmly but softly, fingers tracing over his chest slowly, “That’s when you know you’ve found it, when the things you never had don’t matter anymore. When it makes you feel whole and you forget that it made you hurt, and you don’t care that it did because it doesn’t now.” Reba suddenly grows quiet. “That’s-, that’s what I think it’d be like, anyway, what it should be like.”

The topic is love. That word shall never be spoken because what he felt for his Grandmother was the result of a very twisted form of caring. It was a one sided event that he never believed would be compared to anything in the world. Now with the woman lying in bed with him, he can’t actually say it’s the same but it’s close. The fire inside him serves as the vessel to protect her against everything, even the world itself. It’s been like that probably since he was born. But there’s something interesting about it. It hurts when you’ve been provided of it at some point in your life and it was suddenly taken from you. The absence is what stings, the hole. But in Dolarhyde’s case, that hole has been always empty, never to be filled, virgin if you must and painful as well.

“Perhaps.” Her philosophy is diametrically opposite to him because his experiences have taught him the opposite. “How do you know that you’re feeling whole?”

 ** _Perhaps_**. Reba bites the inside of her lip to hide a smile. It’s the most profoundly Francis answer he could give her, with the exception of _maybe_ , and she makes note to bring it up again, at least for a while. However, he questions her gently and she feels him move to look at her. It’s not a difficult question, but it’s one she’s never really considered, and for that she furrows her brow.

The tip of her tongue taps against her lip, her fingers drumming against his chest. “Because I don’t worry about people pitying me,” Reba finally determines, voice soft, “Most people do a good job of hiding it after a while. They don’t say things anymore, but they have that little tone in their voice that they pretend doesn’t hint at sympathy. I can hear it and I hate it. Pity’s easy. Pity’s lazy.” She’s quiet again, her mouth moving slightly to try and form the words she wants. “But when I don’t have to worry, not for a minute, then I’m whole. It means I can just be me and-, and someone likes that. Just how I am, doesn’t imagine what it would be like if I could see, if they didn’t have to worry about making sure I didn’t hurt myself, couldn’t do something. That’s being whole.”

He makes her feel whole, she knows this, encouraged by the soft sound her kiss coaxes out of him. There’s not an ounce of pity him. He didn’t want her to pity him, not even for the galaxy of wounds he bears, seen and unseen, and they’re together in that. As he carefully shifts her face, Reba presses a kiss to his Adam’s apple, feeling his pulse beat against her lips.

“I haven’t lived with pity. I’ve done it with-” Should he say it? Would she understand? Why should he let something like that in the open? “… Ignorance.” It’s better than the truth, which would be rejection. Dolarhyde’s existence has been filled with ignorance and rejection from all the parties involved in his growing days and even as an adult. And now he feels emotionally naked in front of his woman who’s trying really hard to read him.

“Ignorance,” She replies quietly, feeling the weight of the word on her tongue. She can’t quite decode what it must mean to him, what each letter must represent to him, but she can guess at glimmers of it. For him, it has meant loneliness, isolation. It has meant fear, and no small amount of it. Isolation means hurt. “That’s worse than pity,” She murmurs and it’s not an admittance she’s ever made for. After all, for Reba MClane, there is nothing else as loathsome as pity. Pity lingers, sticks to your skin and buries itself under your nails if you’re not careful to wash it off immediately. It has hurt her, wounded her, but she looks at Francis and sees the sort of hurt that would steal her joy away.

“It can be your ally.” Dolarhyde’s baritone voice is like music, despite his speech distortion due to his cleft palate and lip. He takes on her words and she’s right, but that’s all he ever had in his life. It’s all connected: ignorance, hurt and loneliness. He never wished for a better life because torture is all he ever knew. He only wanted to be loved, it doesn’t matter where, his grandmother’s house or his mother’s. Just to be cared for, to be a priority in someone’s life. “It makes you stronger.”

That’s what he believes, because that helped him build his walls around the scared boy that kept him safe.

Stronger. Yes, he is strong now for it, she’s reminded of that every time she touches him and Reba’s greeted with warm muscle. She knows about trauma, at least a bit, from what the boys and girls used to tell her and what she read. He’s protecting himself, by telling himself the years of grief and hurt and loneliness have made him stronger. Reba doesn’t blame him. What’s the alternative? To admit he’s broken by it all, that ever display of cruelty had crawled its way under his skin and lingered there? Strong means things don’t hurt, or at least hurt less. Strong means safe.

There’s a warm, salty tear that tickles the corner of her lip and slips into her mouth. There’s wetness over his chest and he looks down to realize that she’s crying. Dolarhyde gently tilts her chin upwards to face him and he brushes the thin trail of the tear off with his thumb. He looks at it before sticking out his tongue to taste the salty water drop. He broke another barrier of intimacy with that gesture alone. He knows what her sorrow tastes like.

He’s so careful when he talks and she knows he thinks about every word, choose what will sound the most normal, but God, everything he says in that soft, deep voice sends a shiver down her spine and settles in her heart. Who had been so cruel to him that something as simple, something she’s so utterly taken for granted, as touch is strange? Is new and unknown and something he’s been so starved for?

Her fingers are long, elegant, and he uses them to touch his face slowly, caressing his cheeks, eyebrows, temples. He wants her to see him. He needs her to see him so he can be sure that she’s not doing this just for fun. He wants to see her reaction to his ugliness despite her saying that he’s beautiful. “I’m looking into your eyes,” he informs her, because if she can’t see it, she can imagine it. “And I don’t know what to say.” Honesty.

She focuses on the skin beneath her hands, on the arches and dips and curves of his face. He’s warm, despite the cool air, and she opens her eyes to meet his gaze. Or, at least, where she estimates it to be. “You don’t have to say anything,” She murmurs, and her fingers move down to his jaw, “Let me tell you what I see.”

Fingers move slowly over him again, mapping, tracing along his skin. “You’re very handsome and-, and it shows, even if you don’t think so. It worries you, sometimes, because you don’t think you are so why would anyone else.” The corner of her thumb goes to his lip, moving along the edge to rest against his scar, “Because you think that’s all they can see. And for some maybe, that’s all they’ll ever see, but they don’t matter.” Her fingers move over his cheekbones now, the hollow of his cheeks. “You don’t have laugh lines because you don’t smile that often, but it must be beautiful when you smile, because it’s so rare.”

There’s minuscule twitching in his features as she describes what she 'sees’ in him, how she analyzes each fraction of his face and his gaze moves away, waiting for her to be disturbed by his appearance. A high pitched frequency hits his brain and his right eye immediately twitches in pain. He tries his best to not tense.

_You know how it will end. Fuck her and kill her now before it’s too late._

Dolarhyde sits up in bed grabbing his head and releasing her from his embrace. “I need to…” It feels like a million needles located at that section of his brain and he feels like they are going to come out from his eye socket at any minute. “Excuse me.”

“Francis?” Reba blinks, tenderness turns to confusion as he moves from her grasp, “Are-, Francis, are you ok?” He doesn’t reply and his footsteps are loud, swift.

He abandons the bedroom and desperately grabbing his head, goes to the bathroom where he locks it with key. The man sits on the toilet in the darkness, just like a good boy, just like Grandmother taught him and fights back a sob. The pain is unbearable and it suddenly stops, only to be replaced with the thunder of a terrible voice.

_You’re ruining everything. You piece of shit. You’re never going to be One with me if you keep this up._

The man’s eyes shoot open at His words and shakes his head, mumbling incoherent phrases and rocking on the toilet, covering his face with both palms. “Don’t leave me, don’t do it, please,” he whispers. He’s doing everything wrong, he’s losing all he has achieved this past year. Dolarhyde can’t subject himself to abandonment again. Especially not from Him.

Reba sits very still then and her stomach twists itself into so fierce and throbbing a knot she fears she’ll be sick. He fled, he literally went and fled her, as if her touch had seared him and-, and her smile had been- She swallows hard, fingers trembling as she brushes messed curls back behind an ear.

Francis is different.

She stands up carefully and makes her way over to the bathroom, knocking once against the door. “Francis, I-, I hope you’re ok. I-,” Her speech falters and she sighs heavily, turning to rest her back against the wall and sliding down it until she’s seated. “I said a lot of things tonight, and I-, I probably talk more than you want me to, but I’m not sorry for it. I say what I think should be said, what-, what I want to say, and everything I told you I meant.” She swallows hard, closing her eyes and steeling her jaw to keep the trembling from her voice, “I hope you come out, Francis, and I hope you come back to bed. I’d like you to come back, to be with me, and I’d like you to kiss me again and in the morning, I hope you go on that walk with me. I hope you keep coming back, because I want to keep seeing you.  I’ll go back to bed, because I don’t want to make it awkward if you want to leave, but I hope you stay, Francis. I want you to stay.”

And with that, Reba slowly walks back to her room, curls under the sheets, and waits and holds back the first pricking of tears.

He hears her voice behind him and doesn’t care to answer because the voice in his head is yelling, punishing him for… what? Being happy? Is this what happiness is about? Having an instant of joy and then regret it?

Dolarhyde’s glassy eyes look at the door as she tries her best to calm him down but nothing works. There’s much more than panic in him. It’s a total breakdown and he has no idea how to manage to be back to ‘normal’.

_The cunt wants you back to fuck you. Nothing more. You are mine. You are destined for something greater._

He covers his mouth with a palm from yelling and speaking, but he’s sure what he wants to say. That his body can be split, that his mind can have some moments for her. And it scares him that this is the first night they are together and how much she’s influencing him. How much she has claimed him as her own. And it’s fine, because he has done the same with her. He has marked it.

_You are no one’s property but mine._

He’s wrong, wrong, wrong. But he’s right too. He feels like he’s being torn apart, each entity tearing him in half, organs, meat, blood pouring on the floor. He can see it and he closes his eyes tight.

 _She hurts, doesn’t she? That’s all she’s going to bring you._ _Pain and deceit._

It’s strange, that he robs her of her control. Everything with him, with Francis, is a partial guessing game. Every time Reba assumes she can predict him, even the smallest word or gesture or action, he goes and surprises her. It’s normally the sort of thing that would drive her mad, make her horribly aware of her own inabilities but it’s….different. It’s good somehow.

And she desperately wants him to come back to bed. She’s a mortal. She doesn’t understand. She’ll never understand.

The man leaves the toilet to kneel on the cold floor and bend to grab his head with both hands. He’s right, she’ll never understand. But he can’t fail her. She’s not a selected one but she’s extraordinary enough to bring him her kindness without asking anything in return but kisses and touching each other. The Dragon continues yelling in his mind and Dolarhyde bites his lower lip hard to restrain himself from crying for him to stop. The man moves to the sink to wash his face again and again, faster and faster, rubbing it furiously until the voice goes quiet again and he can breathe almost normally. He takes a moment to raise his gaze to face his biggest fear: the mirror. He looks at his scar, impossible to avoid it but he doesn’t smash the surface. He can’t. He then remembers her kisses there and her fingertips tracing the deformity he loathes so much. Some minutes pass, and he’s there by himself, pondering, returning to real life.

The house is in complete darkness, and walking down the corridor feels familiar but he can’t think of that right now. The main entrance door is a few steps away, downstairs. He could escape this nightmare at any moment.

He’s gone for so long she knows he’ll leave and she hates herself for the few tears that settle in her eyes. This is why you don’t trust, don’t let people in so close they can make out the frayed edges. What the hell had she been thinking? Her prior words, the ones that had previously blanketed her with an indescribable warmth, fueled her with a certain kindness, now sting and tear at her. She’s embarrassed, horrified, and she curls up further into her bed.

But she can’t bring herself to regret saying everything, not entirely.

It’s all wrong, and he has to fix it somehow.

Between sleeping with her and allowing her to touch him, Dolarhyde’s been harboring the strangest of sensations, one that he’s experienced before, not too long ago. But it’s quite different. It’s the feeling of ‘belonging’ to someone else, only that Reba’s intentions with him are very different from His. But he has done something he never imagined would put himself through, the action of choosing between a life of solitude or allowing himself little pieces of Light entering his body. From the purest kind. So for the time being, he chose to share himself with her.

He stayed, and with that, a million questions begin to run through his head. Why? How relevant she is in his life? Where is he going with all this? How is he going to play the role of the normal lover with her and the rest? How does one exactly behave in these circumstances? Where are his boundaries in regards of their privacy? He is sure of this last one though because it’s hard to open a safe with the most complicated combination in the world. She somehow figures him out, which is good in regards that she knows where to stop. But on the other hand, it’s dangerous because she isn’t stupid at all and may -see- him one of these days.

That’s the moment when Reba McClane will cease to exist.

Silently, slowly, Dolarhyde enters the bed and wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her closer. His deformed mouth moves to kiss her forehead, fearful that she’ll push him away, that she’ll definitely see what he is.

Reba’s eyes open as she feels the bed weighed down, a warm, strong arm carefully wrapping around her waist. She feels his lips, the brush of his mangled scar, and she instinctively pulls him closer. He came back. **_He came back_**. Her arms wrap around him tightly, clutching onto him as if at any moment he might slip away again, out of her touch and beyond her grasp. She moves to rest her forehead against his, voice a trembling whisper, “I’m glad you came back, Francis.” And with that, Reba kisses him, fingers exploring his jaw and shoulders and back, gesturing all the words she can’t form into being.

“I’m not leaving,” he simply states.

He’s been hurt, Francis Dolarhyde, there’s no doubt of that. It shows in every long, careful pause, in every nervous touch of his hand and that he still cannot say her name. For that, Reba determines to care for him all the more. Perhaps one day he’ll be able to, and she’ll cherish every beautiful syllable, but for now he is here. They’re together.

She reaches out, fingertips brushing over sheets until she finds his hand, and clutches it tightly. “Thank you,” She murmurs, and while she wishes she could say more, could put the rush of warmth and happiness and security surging through her to words, there’s a simplicity to this. Thank you means thank you for staying, for trusting me, for allowing me to touch you when the only touch you’ve ever known has been cruel. **_Thank you_**.

The man turns around to lay on his back and looks at the ceiling, wondering if it was a good decision, really, because he’s a bad boy and he always fucks up everything. But her words were somehow reassuring. He lies there in complete silence, unable to muster the right words for the moment.

…

It’s still warm, and as a matter of fact, too warm. And when he opens his eyes and realizes that he’s at a stranger’s bed, he initially panics but as soon as he sees a feminine body beside him, Dolarhyde’s body relaxes gradually. She’s still there. She didn’t vanish. She wasn’t part of a dream.

The man watches her sleep and counts the seconds between each intake of air and when she exhales. One, two… one, two. Perfect rhythm, nothing irregular. Perfect.

“Good morning,” he whispers against her mouth before pressing his lips against hers.

It’s strange, but the first thing she thinks of as he kisses her awake is the beautiful dog she’d had as a girl. It seems a cold comparison, but her dog had woken her up on summer mornings by leaning his paws on the side of her bed and pressing his wet nose to her own, as if he was so eager to see her that he had no choice but to wake her. She loved that dog. Those are warm memories, tinted golden in her mind, and she smiles lazily. “Good-,” It’s interrupted by a yawn and she stretches catlike, rolling in the sheets for a moment, “Morning. Did you sleep alright?”

Dolarhyde runs his fingertips over her neck, caressing her skin. Touching her in such gentle ways is utterly different from what he’s used to do. Generally, after sex, he has to go or the whore tells him that his time’s up. Last night and today, things are quite different. “Yes.” As strange as it is, he didn’t have nightmares, something he imagined he’d experiment since he wasn’t sleeping in his own bed, but nothing happened. No dreams. Just the plain black behind closed eyes. Strange. “It’s still snowing.” Apparently, nature decided to go with her wishes.

She curls back closer to him, grinning sleepily, and nuzzles him gently. “Yeah? That means you’re stuck with me for the day, Mr. D, I couldn’t bear to have you out on those snowy roads until they’ve been cleared. You know, for your safety.” Reba can’t hold back a laugh and buries her face into his neck, toes brushing his.

“Hmm.” Spending the day with her scares him in a sense because he’s not used to stay in someone else’s house just like that. As a matter of fact, it has never happened and to intrude in someone else’s life, different from the research he does for his victims, feels slightly uncomfortable. But she expects him to navigate comfortably in her house. He can try. “Being stuck with you isn’t a problem,” he answers, trying to work his best to not let the ’s’ sound too strong.

“I’m glad,” and it seems a simple statement but there’s meaning rippling beneath the words. There always is, when it involves Francis. There’s a thousand things to be said but somehow her mouth falters when she tries and it’s never quite right. I’m glad you slept well. I’m glad you didn’t leave. **_I’m glad you kissed me awake. I’m glad you kissed me._**

“If you want to shower, I can make breakfast. I’m sorry all my shampoo smells like…like moonlit lavender meadows or whatever women’s scents are called.” Another kiss. “What do you want for breakfast?”

Dolarhyde rubs her cheek with his thumb before sitting up in bed. “I’ll shower. And…” This is all too much, too good for the man who grew up without anything until his adulthood. “Just anything is good.” He’s not the most charming of men because he should have added ‘anything YOU MAKE is good’, but then again, she should get used to his poor social skills. Entirely nude (there’s no need for him to dress for a woman who’s blind), the man makes his way to the bathroom and pauses. He returns to the bedroom since he remembers this matter. “I’m going to shower,” he announces. Because last time he moved from that bed she thought he was leaving the house.

“Anything, got it,” Reba sits up with a laugh, running a hand through her messy hair, and bites the inside of her lip to hide a grin at his return, “I’ll see you downstairs.” Once his footsteps fade, she allows herself the full grin, features shining. He’s perfectly, magnificently himself and she finds herself loving the idea of the innumerable mysteries he seems to hold.

The warm water runs down his broad tattooed back as he washes his hair with the lavender scented shampoo. It smells like her, but the scent won’t be strong enough for anyone to laugh at him, or at least he hopes. At any rate, both decided to skip work and even if the idea doesn’t please him, he manages to accept it. Because firstly, he doesn’t like to take days off, being he always way earlier than anyone else at Gateway. Secondly, people will talk since both are off today. But what can he do now? It’s too late to go back.

It’s not the best, but he’s a man, and men don’t really care about used underwear. The man dresses and takes the sheets of the bed off, because there are traces of come and sleeping there again is disgusting. Something suddenly strikes him and that is the fact that he didn’t wear a condom nor he asked her about her contraceptive method. He remains looking at the sheets, a blank stare considering all of this and wraps them in a bundle to take downstairs.

She gets up and slips on a t-shirt and shorts before a robe, feet eagerly curling into slippers. Perhaps not the most alluring look after a night like she’d had, but a comfortable, warm one given the chill outside. Reba treads downstairs and pauses before her fridge, trying to remember what all she had and consider what all she could make. There’s oranges in the pantry and when she was a girl, her father had taken the time to make her fresh squeezed orange juice every Saturday morning. That’s another golden memory and she smiles for it, determining to do the same.

There’s strawberries too and she decides that would do well with pancakes, carefully taking the ingredients from the pantry and fridge. She’s practiced with this, cooking. Her mother had helped her learn, found little tricks to make it all work, like setting your fingertip on the inside of the measuring cup. She knows some people find it a novelty, watching a blind woman somehow manage to fucking live.

But Reba knows Francis won’t and her fingers find a sound system perched by the window sill and switching it on. It’s soft music, Bon Iver, if she remembers correctly, and she can’t quite remember snow but she’s never been more content.

She continues about her business, carefully counting to 45 before flipping each pancake. (That’s the magic number; 45 seconds, 2 flips each. She has her mother to thank for that). It’s a good smell, warm and cozy somehow, and Reba carefully cuts the oranges in half before working to squeeze the juice into two cups. She pauses, lifting her thumb to her lip, and allows herself to lick off a few tendrils of pulp. It’s sweet and fresh and she smiles, closing her eyes in contentment. It doesn’t quite seem real, all of this, but she hears footfall on the stairs and she knows it is.

There’s a sweet smell in the air and it’s pleasing. He hasn’t smelled something like that in years, being he used to eat cereal and a basic breakfast due to his physical activity and consuming the right foods to keep himself fit. But pancakes are very welcomed.

Muffins, latte and cookies were his breakfast at his grandmother’s house, all courtesy of Queen Mother. He remembers his grandmother’s disgusted face as he ate, trying his best to not spill his food considering his deformed lip. It was hard to get used to eat normally after the surgery, and some of those things remain. He’s a beast eating, and when he has to do it in public he does his best to look ‘normal’ for the others. Else, it would attract the attention from strangers and he’d give them yet another reason to laugh at him, either in his face or after he’s gone. But she can’t see him, so he can be himself.

How peculiar, someone making him breakfast. It feels unreal.

“I went with pancakes. Not quite as good as ‘anything’, but I figured everyone likes pancakes.” She grins wryly, carefully depositing a bit more batter onto the pan. “I can put some coffee on if you want, but there’s orange juice on the table.” Reba actively works not to sound too much like one of those wives from the 50′s who grinned like idiots and always had every meal prepared perfectly, trying to sound casual.

“Smells… good,” Dolarhyde comments as he approaches to inhale in the scents of the food. And he’s not impressed by her cooking skills, not because he doesn’t appreciate them but because he forgets she’s blind. She’s very good at this, and the man takes a few moments to realize about this fact and look at her profile as she cooks, admiring her. “Orange juice is fine.” The pancakes look delicious and his mouth waters at the mere sight of them. Someone spoiling him is an old memory that comes back after almost thirty-eight years later. The man looks at his feet, considering all this.

“I… brought the sheets. I don’t know where to put them.” He could roam around the house to find the washing machine but he respect her space and it wouldn’t be polite. He may be a monster, but she’s been kind enough to earn his respect.

“Oh-,” She flushes a bit, realizing how dirty they must be, and shifts her weight, “If you go down the hall and to the left, the washer and dryer are in there. There’s detergent on the second shelf from the top.” It occurs to her that of course he’ll be able to see it, but she’s so used to recording every position, every place with such specificity that it’s nearly impossible to break the habit.

He makes his way to the laundry room and puts the sheets to wash, adding some detergent. It’s lavender scented smell and fills his nostrils. He runs his fingertips over his wet hair, before smelling them. Apparently she likes it.

It’s interesting to get into Dolarhyde’s mind with this kind of matter. He stores the information without knowing it and ignores the fact that he will use it in the future for a special purpose. For example, to purchase natural lavender to put between her sheets at the drawer where she keeps them, in order to spread its perfume. Everything in the man’s mind is there, ready to be used, but he doesn’t realize about this fact. For him, the information he gathers has a certain purpose but unconsciously, he can store trivial matters such as Reba’s passion for lavender. One day he’ll realize about this.

“How much snow is there outside?” She calls out, reaching for some plates, (second cabinet, first shelf) and silverware, (first drawer from the left). “I try and feed the birds out back, so remind me to toss out some birdseed on top of it.” Reba carries the plates over and the pancakes after, setting down the strawberries and juice. Careful fingers pull out a chair and she settles into it, snuggling into her robe. “I hope this is ok.”

“You are a good cook,” he comments, trying to replace the awkward silence with something of his own. The man takes a sip, or rather swallows his orange juice as if he was a thirsty man in the desert.

“Thanks,” she says gently, swallowing a bite of pancake and reaching for a few strawberries to place on top of the rest, “I like feeding the birds. My neighbor tells me that a cardinal shows up sometimes, but most of them are pretty little. I’m sure it’s tough to find food in the winter, so I like to think I help my little friends out a bit.” Reba pauses, realizing she’s going on and on about birds of all things, and blushes. She grins shyly, sneaking in a small sip of orange juice, “I’m sorry. I’m probably talking you to death, aren’t I? You need to just tell me to shut up when I do that.”

She is somehow annoying, talking all the time, but she makes it up for both, since he can’t say much, or doesn’t want to, actually. Because if he opens his mouth he’s going to say something improper, and we’re not talking about dirty talk here but something serious. Something that will infuriate Him. “It’s okay.” Dolarhyde takes another bite and swallows quickly. “I like your voice.”

_What the fuck are you thinking?_

As expected he fucked up. He’s not behaving according to His plan and he’s making a fool out of himself. But the truth is that he does like her voice. Soft, with a special ring into it, he likes how she pronounces the ‘k’s and how she smiles when she says his name. Francis. The ‘s’ so sweetly, as if she had invented the name and gave it to him. As the creating Light that knows it all. To hear her voice is to be caressed by the finest silk.

Somehow, when he says it, it seems the sweetest compliment anyone has ever paid her. People don’t talk about those sorts of things, those infinitesimal details that somehow temper together to make a person who they are. But Francis, Francis sees them all. He sees what everyone else misses and Reba knows they’re the same in this. It’s a tender thing to say, something as simple, unchangeable as her voice, and she’s never wanted anything so badly as to kiss him now.

But kisses are easy and she wants to give him more than that. He deserves more than just a kiss.

He deserves the truth, even if he can’t understand it, not yet anyway. She hopes he’ll be able to, done day.

“I like your voice, too,” She nods, voice quiet but firm, “I like when you speak, because I get to hear your voice. You speak so beautifully, Francis, and I like everything you have to say.” It’s neither a lie nor an exaggeration. His deep, careful baritone seems to wrap around her and envelop her, different, yes, but welcome. Every word is chosen with precision, with a myriad of meaning behind it.

If she was someone else, he’d be planning a way to kill her for mocking his speech impediment. But he knows she doesn’t mean it. Considering the number of times she has asked him random things, she must be serious. He doesn’t understand how someone can love the way he speaks with his deformed mouth and his unnatural pronunciation. “I don’t have much to say.” Not true, of course. But she can’t hear it now, not yet. Especially not in this moment.

“Most people talk and talk and it never means a thing.” Reba laughs against his mouth, a flush appearing as she wonders if that’s what he must think of her. “They talk just to fill the silence. You don’t.”

He likes the way his prominent nose digs in her cheek when they kiss because it’s like she adjusts to him as if they were made for the action. When they break contact, the man looks down at her lips as she speaks and can certainly say that he loves to see her moving that gorgeous mouth with every word she says. He also remembers that last night on her knees, pleasuring him with her tongue. He pushes the thought away, not the time to get hard. Again.

She can hear him eating and it’s a comforting sound, in its own strange, endearing way. He trusts her enough to not worry about his mouth, to eat freely, as unattractive as she supposes it must look.

Reba doesn’t care.

She smells lavender and realizes he smells like her. It floods her with warmth and as she runs a hand through her hair, Reba realizes the scent of him, that terribly, perfectly masculine scent, has settled into her hair.

She sets the glass down, a hand carefully reaching out over the table. Reba finally finds his hand, slender fingers brushing his, and lifts it to her mouth. “Francis, you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.” A small smile, but a genuine one. “I don’t want to keep you here if you don’t want to stay.”

**_But I hope you stay._ **

Shyly, fearful fingers feel her warm cheek he imagines he can read her like a book. Sometimes. Just an instant, then it’s gone, like a shooting star that’s too beautiful to admire for a brief second. “I’m staying,” he adds because truth to be told, last night was the most wonderful one he has ever experienced with a woman in his life. He’s scared of that thought. And it’s not about her only but what transpired by their coupling. It’s more than just flesh against flesh, more than whispered words against his ear, more than moaning, grabbing, twisting in bed, crying, needing. It’s synchronization, it’s poetry and the desire to breathe for each other. It’s something he absolutely ignored until now.

The dish moves away and the screeching of the chair as he pulls it close to hers is loud. And in one sudden move, his mouth is against hers, tasting like strawberries and her taste, something that can only be described like that. He can’t express himself on a daily basis and since last night, his language has radically evolved into something that doesn’t need words to communicate what he wants to say. They both have created this special language in which she understands and he delivers. “I’m staying,” he repeats against her wet lips and closes his eyes because he doesn’t need them to see her. He feels her, just like she does with him.

Just like it should be.

Grinning at his admission, Reba opens her mouth to reply but then there’s a scraping of the chair against the floor tiles and his lips are on hers. It’s so sudden it startles her, but she sinks into it because it’s welcome. Her eyes flutter shut and she smiles, leaning forward to peck a kiss against his lips in return. “I’m glad,” A hand moves to the side of his neck, gently tugging him in closer before meeting his lips again in a slow, soft kiss.

And she’s glad he’s staying. Reba laughs and rests her forehead against him, nuzzling her nose to this. “Would you like to come feed the birds with me? I can put some coffee on and then it’ll be ready if you want to go for a walk.”

“Yes.” Something as boring and stupid as feeding birds is useless but he sighs deeply and stands up, following her to the backyard.Another soft peck and she stands up, pushing wayward curls behind her ears. She makes her way to the backdoor, tightening her robe around herself to keep the chill away, and smiles. Reba is still for a long moment and simply breathes. The cold air rushes into her lungs, piercing and pure, but it’s clean. She likes when winter’s like this, quiet and somber somehow. She wonders what he’s thinking.

“You like snow, don’t you? That’s what you said at the office.” A smile is offered with a quick turn of his head so he can see. “And rain.”

“I do.” Dolarhyde has always found in the cold of the snow and the rain a way to express his sadness in silence. Whenever it happens, he stays for hours watching the landscape change with the white snowflakes and the raindrops, transforming everything around him. He feels like the climate is giving him a gift. A voice. “I like to watch it.”

Birds can find their own food, else they die and everybody dies, so there’s no reason to waste their time with this. But she likes it and he shuts up, stepping into the snow and turning to look at her, wondering if she needs help. Of course she doesn’t.

He could crush one of those birds in his strong palm; listen to the cracking sounds of the bones as they bend. They are delicate creatures, easy to kill. He’d offer her the result, a little ball of feathers and blood. He could see her face of disgust and horror if that ever come to happen.

The backyard is rather large for a house like hers, but he imagines she must enjoy the summer breeze on her face, calmly sipping into her iced tea. But she ignores that this is a fine place if he had to kill her. There are several angles he can use to hide and watch her before striking some time later. Two trees, a tall wall from a neighbor (he can use it to hide in the dark even in the full moon), two windows at the back and of course two doors, front and back.

But she’s not a Selected One. He still forgets that even after their night together.

The man looks around for the jar with the food and picks it up, making his way back to her. Dolarhyde looks at the trees, there’s no sound of bird chirping at all. “I guess they aren’t here.”

There’s a soft laugh from her, genuine and easy going, beautiful. Fingers carefully undo the cap, reaching in. Small seeds settle over her fingers and she scoops out a small amount, “Guessin’ you haven’t fed a lot of birds in your time, have you, Mr. D?” She lightly tosses the bird food atop the snow and takes a step back. “They don’t always come right away. Sometimes it takes all afternoon, but they sing so sweetly when they do come. I sit sometimes, and listen to them, and try and imagine what they must look like.”

So he wasn’t so mistaken. She does like to sit at her backyard to listen to the sounds that the outside world offers to her freely. “No,” he answers as he watches the seeds fly in the air and fall on the white mantle of the snow. “You can imagine them free, taking what you gave them just because,” he pauses, steps forward and stands two steps behind her, “you’re a decent person.” He’s not. And he’ll never be. No one thinks of crushing a small life to give it as a gift to the person he cares about most.

Ah, Reba McClane.

How many secrets will she share with the monster?

It catches her off guard, a reply like that, because to say she’s decent implies that there’s an alternative. It’s not a common thing to say, (nothing he says is common and god, does she loves it,) and Reba realizes he most of known people who weren’t decent. It’s a compliment solely because he’s known indecent people.

“They’re birds, but they’re still important. To me, anyway. They sing for me in the mornings. The least I can do is toss them a bit of food to make things easier for them.” She loves animals, she’s always loved them for as long as she can remember. They love freely, animals, and trust without pause. Some might think them stupid or simple for that, but not her.

Feeding goddamed birds. Great. If he doesn’t do it, she’s going to listen and so the man frowns before throwing some handfuls of seeds as if he was feeding chicken. Strangely so, the minute he spills the first seeds, two birds fly to their direction, resting on the ground and beginning to eat, cheerfully chirping. Dolarhyde stops. They like what he’s doing. He’s being kind to them and they appreciate it. This is so strange that the man remains silent for a few seconds before talking again.

She grins as the birds begin to chirp at their feet and nudges him playfully, “See how quick they came? I think you’re a natural, D, and I think they like you. “ Francis Dolarhyde, quiet and calm, with a book by a window. Reading, happy and warm, content.

Creatures liking him is a mistake. Just like she is, but he can’t stop himself from wanting to be with her. They practically love twice times during their first night and today they are together, like a regular couple. If he had any intention to make her believe that this was going to be a one night stand, that chance has been long lost. He has no escape now. “They are birds, not people,” he answers dryly. Animals are meant to be used for food or entertainment. Or weapons for revenge, in his case.

Reba gently hands the open jar, clearly offering him the opportunity to take some. “May I ask you what it looks like right now? I remember snow, if I try very hard. Just…a sea of white and…trees in the distance. I don’t remember those as much as I remember the idea of them, but I know I liked winter.” She pauses, recognizing that her voice has grown very soft, and adds quietly. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“There are small hills of white around you, it’s thicker in some places and… the garden is dead, it’s very cold.” Dolarhyde keeps the jar in his hands, watching as the two birds take their time to eat. “There are some plants alive, and the green contrasts with the snow. The…” He looks up, trying to find something else she may find interesting. “There’s a pine that’s covered in snow, as if it was ice-cream, and the other one has no leaves.” It’s just like them. While Reba is so full of life, he’s void of it, but he’s not weak. The branches are strong, enough to not bend if a strong man like him climbs it. “It’s… still beautiful.”

As he begins to describe the scene, Reba takes a careful step or two until her back’s against his chest. Slender hands move to find his and she wraps his arms around herself, burrowing into his warm embrace. She listens carefully and his voice is the most beautiful thing she’s ever heard. This is the most she’s ever heard him talk and he’s trying so hard for her, she knows this, every word impossibly precise and he’s trying so, so hard. She’s quiet for a time, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against her, and then smiles slowly. “It sounds beautiful. You made it sound beautiful.”

She’s never felt as peaceful as in this moment. It’s just them and the birds and the great white world she can only dream of. Reba feels impossibly small then, but there’s a comfort there, to be utterly herself even that’s small. “I’m happy,” Reba finally murmurs and shifts to face him. Her head falls against his shoulder and she repeats it quietly, almost in disbelief or so carefully that it’s a secret, “I’m happy. I can’t remember the last time I felt so safe and-…, and even though it’s cold, I don’t want to move. I way to stay in this moment, just us, just like this.”

Reba blushes and buries her face against his neck, “I know that must sound stupid. I wish I knew how to say-,” To say what? She knows what she feels, can feel the first beat of its fragile wings deep in her heart, “How happy I am.” She finishes with that and a hand creeps up to his jaw. Reba lightly tilts his mouth down to hers, lips moving against his in a slow, deep kiss.

He blinks several times as she approaches and attaches herself against him, guiding his arms to curl around her small frame. She’s listening to his heartbeats and he’s nervous because no one has ever done that before except in the nursery after he was born. Perhaps she realized that he’s constantly kissing her jugular to feel her pulse as well? The man’s arms linger around her frame for a moment before actually taking action and pull her close to his body. It feels surreal, the whole situation, and he can’t identify exactly what kind of emotions he’s experiencing. She speaks again and he’s puzzled, not because he doesn’t understand the meaning of the word ‘happy’ (though, if he didn’t, he’d have all the reasons in the world), but because he can’t figure out how can he make someone happy by being who he is.

She feels him briefly tense as she moves against him but she understands it. He always tense when she touches him, as if he expected her skin to burn him. But, after a time, he always relaxes, just as he had the first night she touched his mouth, and he does so now. Her eyes fall closed as he pulls her close. He’s unbelievably strong, Francis, and she feels safe.

“It’s not stupid,” he comments before her thin fingers manipulate him to look down at her for a kiss. And in that instant, in the middle of the snow, with birds chirping and her scent all over him, Dolarhyde understands that this is truly wrong, and that he doesn’t intend to move at all. If he must suffer for this, he will. But no one, absolutely no one will take his woman away from him.

**_No one._ **

His mouth moves gently over hers as they kiss and one of his palms moves up and down her back very slowly to shield her from the cold. The man breaks their lip contact only to press his mouth against her cheek and the corner of her beautiful dark eye. The same palm moves upwards to entangle his fingers with the black waves of hair and he cradles Reba’s head to press it against his chest. “You don’t need to explain it.” Without realizing, he has uttered wise words that have come from years of trying to find an answer to why does he feel the way he does all the time. He gave up. His life is now in the Dragon’s hands. “We should…” The moment is nice for her, but rather uncomfortable for him because they are in the open and some neighbor may be watching, “… get some coffee done and go.”

“Alright,” she nods, removing herself from his arms, albeit rather unwillingly. “I’ll go get dressed if you want to put some coffee on,” Reba reaches out and finds the door handle, slipping into the heat of the house and shivering at the sudden change in temperature. “I’ll just be a couple minutes. Coffee’s in the third shelf in the cabinet and there’s thermoses in the cupboard.” She turns to the stairs, biting her lip to hide a grin.

“Okay.” He watches her go and follows her inside, after throwing a last look at the birds eating. Mixed feelings about the whole event. But he quickly brushes the thought away as he gets his head in preparing coffee with the elements she pointed for him.

As the coffee machine’s water is getting ready to begin the process, the man raises a hand and looks at his palm. The same hand that ran over her curves and touches her as if she was made of pure gold or the finest silk. He brings his fingertips to his scar, where she has kissed him uncountable times by now. Dolarhyde traces the length of the deformity on his mouth remembering her lips there and it’s so odd, because he has never caressed the result of his surgery with warm thoughts before.

She’s excited for this, has been since he seemed to agree to the idea last night. Reba likes to walk in the snow, to feel the cold around her and soak in the chill of winter, but the idea of sharing it with someone else, with him, makes it all the more appealing. She slips into jeans and a sweater, making her way carefully down the stairs and reaching for her jacket in the hall. “You sure you still want to go, D? I don’t mind if it’s too cold for you, we can always stay in.”

But she hopes he wants to go.

She descends from the stairs and he’s ready to go, bag with the thermos and two cups inside, hanging from his shoulder. He fights back a chuckle at her remark about the cold. He has trained outside in the snow wearing shorts and a t-shirt several times to endure the different climates. He stood under the moonlight covered in his victims’ blood with a maniacal grin on his face. “I want to go.” And truth to be told, he does want to. Because if they stay in the house, they’ll never leave the bed and he doesn’t want to elaborate high expectations on the occurrence to continue happening in the future. He can’t abuse his luck.

“Alright,” She nods with a half grin, content because she’s given him one last chance to politely decline, one more opportunity to escape if he so wished, and he hadn’t.

Not minding if she’s going to take the walking cane or not, Dolarhyde takes her hand to curl it around his arm.

Reba carefully zips up her coat, allowing herself to be enveloped by the welcome warmth and reaches out for her cane. She’d left it by the doorframe of the kitchen, which she always does, but just as her fingers touch the handle she feels his arm. She pauses.

She likes her cane, likes not having to use it when she’s become familiar enough with a place to map it all out inside her mind, create grids and roadways for her feet to trace unhindered, but when that’s not available her cane is her lifeline. It leaves her capable. Reba considers this, considers him, and takes a hold of it only to fold it into her purse. It’s there if she needs it. Accepting his arm, she smiles as he leads her outside. Her eyes close and she sucks in the cold air, feeling it stick like small needles into her tender lungs, but it’s a welcome sensation.

Once outside, he walks slowly by her side, giving her enough time to be careful. The neighborhood is quiet, many are at work, others in bed probably. He’s a complete gentleman, and she’d be shocked of what his ‘gentleman’ is capable of when he’s not in her presence. Their height difference is grand but he rather likes it; makes it easier for him to believe he can shield her from any danger. It’s cloudy and terribly cold but he doesn’t mind. He likes the idea that the city is almost deserted. “Have you lived here for a long time?”

Reba recognizes how much taller he is and mentally chuckles at what an interesting pair they must look. She walks slowly next to him, careful to make sure her shoes don’t slide over any unexpected patches of it, and nods at his unexpected question. He wants to know more about her. “No, only about…three months now. I moved here for Gateway, but it’s nice. It’s…quiet here, most of the time, and people are nice enough.” She shrugs and allows herself to lean into him a bit more. “I like my house a lot, though. Only took me a few days to map it all out, though I forget about the lamp in the living room sometimes. I keep tripping on the stupid thing when I go to sit on the couch.”

She’s very new in town, and he imagines she must be lost and clueless about almost everything, with the exception of the basic places: police, banks and groceries. “Sprinfield is quiet.” Dolarhyde can’t say that it isn’t. Quiet enough for him to not raise any suspicion of his nightly activities. “You’re not from here… then.”

She came to him. She’s not from his birthplace. She’s a gift that came to him.

Dolarhyde faintly smiles at this.

“No,” She gives a shake of her head, smiling politely, “Connecticut. Little colder, maybe, more liberal.”

Reba grins as if she’s just confessed a secret, and in some ways she has. She decides to venture another question towards him. “Have you always lived here? I haven’t really gone out that much, most to get coffee some nights and do some work.” A pause. “Any local places I just have to see? Maybe we-, we could go some evening or on a weekend.”

“Yes.” The answer is short, and he decides to elaborate. “My… ancestors have lived here for generations.” ‘Family’ is ludicrous really, because truth to be told, he never had one, nor he ever felt it. Grandmother was a one-woman-only show, she wasn’t his mother and if you look closely, never behaved like a real grandmother. But for him, she was the only person who once tried to treat him decently. And it’s his fault if she couldn’t. Because of his face. Because of who he is. Because he was born.

Reba laughs quietly, both at her own reply and the image of his ancestors. An odd answer, but endearing in its own way. It speaks to a sense of history, of lineage and time. She likes it.

“There’s not much to see, unless you think hillbillies are an attraction.” He pauses a moment to chuckle. “There’s the Creamery Arts Center, Founders Park, History Museum on the Square… the zoo…”

“Those all sound very nice. I always liked museums, especially the ones that had audio exhibits, obviously. They always have nice floors, museums, and when I was little I liked how much shoes clicked against the stone.” God dammit, she’s rambling again.

When she smiles, he understands that it must be something he’s done correctly. Close to normal. But he’s clueless about what. Can’t identify it. And when she mentions how she enjoys audios in museums he realizes that he’s described things he can see, but she can’t. The level of stupidity he’s shown is out of proportion.

_Doesn’t surprise me._

He has to offer her an alternative with a sensory experience. Perhaps the botanic garden, with the sounds of the birds he likes so much and the scent of the flowers and the greenery. Yes, that could be something useful.

And he’s at about to continue with the detail until he notices the ice melting on the sidewalk and she’s not carrying her walking stick to move. “Watch your step.” Quickly, Dolarhyde detaches himself from her for a second only to pull her closer and curl his arm around her shoulders to press her side against his solid frame as they walk, more secure. He has her just in case she trips or falls due to the tricky ground. He realizes then of the closeness, of how it must look like from the outside. A pair of lovers walking in the snow, intimately together, talking about their lives.

A picture of normalcy that disturbs him. But accepts it anyways. Because it can’t be that bad. If it feels nice inside, it can’t be bad.

He pulls her close and it’s an easy gesture for him, she must weigh nothing, and Reba expects him to pull away but Francis only keeps her closer. A slow smile, bright like the sun, graces her features, enchanted by his gesture.

She inhales again and the ice pricks her but she barely notices. The world is quiet, save for them, and she waits for his reaction with more nervousness than she’d care to admit. Reba allows herself to trust him, however, trust his silence and rests her head against his forearm as they walk. “You’re very warm, by the way.”

“Are you… cold?” he asks in return, tempted to take one of her hands to check that out. But that’d be too much, and he doesn’t want to make a fool out of himself.

“I was, but I’m not anymore. Like I said, you are exceptionally warm, Mr. D, on what happens to be a very cold day.” Her voice grows softer then, becoming more reflective. “I liked sleeping next to you. I get cold sometimes, in the middle of the night. The heating falters a bit, around 2, and sometimes I wake up and have to get another blanket. I didn’t have to get up last night, it was a nice change.”

His body temperature is always warm. And he’s never, ever cold, else he could never stand naked in the moonlight. He noticed during their night together that she had a tendency to curl against him as much as possible, but he imagined it was because she wanted to be with him. Stupid he, Dolarhyde didn’t connect the fact that she was rather cool in comparison to his body heat. “Am I a… walking furnace for you?” A lame attempt of a joke.

_That was fantastic. You’re just laughable._

Reba can’t anticipate that, and she’s certain it’s the closest thing to a joke she’s ever heard him say. She laughs and it’s a joyful sound, light and bright and ringing through the cold air, and Reba ducks her face into his arm. “Well, you’re definitely a good bit more than that,” She grins and inhales. The jacket smells like him. Good, familiar now. “But you do happen to be unbelievably warm. It’s nice. Strong and warm and sweet is a combination I happen to enjoy very much.” She ventures to rest against him just a bit more, as if backing up her statement, and her hand very carefully moves to his. He’s given her permission but Reba knows to be slow, be gentle. Her fingers lightly wrap around his wrist and dip into his palm.

She laughs.

He made her laugh.

And it’s not mocking but a genuine sound, something that comes from within because of his doing, something that brought her joy. It feels oddly satisfying, even if the joke was about himself. Joking on his own persona is not something Dolarhyde does. But it felt quite right to let it out. It didn’t hurt. It’s little, and he’s not truly aware of what that means but it feels odd and that should give him a hint of the importance of that gesture. “I’m a strange combination.” And he is, indeed. “But… if it works for you, then it’s fine.”

“Yes, maybe strange, to most people anyway. But- I’m not most people. I think you’re a magnificent combination.” And she does, she means it true, but just what exactly is he a combination of? Grief, certainly, and loneliness, and perhaps no small amount of heart ache, but there’s also kindness there, and a gentleness, too. A genuine desire to be understood because no one else has ever taken the time nor effort.

But she will. She wants to.

She can be brave, she can be bold. It’s strange. He makes her timid sometimes, and Reba dances with her words, yet he also inspires her to be more open than he ever has. Reba wonders if some of him is rubbing off on her. “Francis?” Yes, be brave. “May I hold your hand?”

At her request, he tenses a bit. Even if there’s no one in the streets right now, anyone could pop in and see them together. Normally, that wouldn’t be a problem for anyone but for him, that’s catastrophic because he doesn’t want anyone to make a connection of him with anyone. It’s true that she can work as a perfect alibi if anything happens but still, it doesn’t feel quite right. “Uh-huh.” And that’s one big advance for Reba McClane, to make him agree on something that intimate in front of everybody.

“There’s a little coffee shop I found if you like the sort of thing.” What a perfectly, stupid thing to say. She sighs internally. “It’s quiet. A nice place to read, they even have Braille books and the coffee is really good, too. That’s about all I know except the grocery store and the mall, I’m afraid.”

With that, Reba gently slides her fingers downwards and laces them with his. “If you ever wanted to go to any of those places, I’d love to.” Reba bites the corner of her lip, correcting herself, “If…if you don’t want to, that’s perfectly fine. I really don’t want to invite myself but-, well, if you ever asked, I’d say yes.”

Even if he’s not very prone to go out, he’d do it for her. Showing the world to someone blind is difficult, and for Dolarhyde is confusing, so so confusing, but he’ll try. He just needs to find the right place to take her. “I’ll think about it.” The coffee shop doesn’t sound so threatening because the people who go there are generally introverts who only want to mind their own space, so it sounds like a good idea. “Maybe… next week.” Because an idea starts forming in his head and perhaps he could use his work to present her a surprise. Yes, it may work.

She nods eagerly before she can help it, “It’s a nice little place. I mean-, it seems like it, anyway. Maybe it’s a horrible dump and I can’t tell any better, but it’s quiet and the coffee roasting always smells amazing.” It’d be a date, wouldn’t it? A perfectly cliché, wonderful little date. “If you’d like to go after work sometime next week, I’d love to show you.”

“It’s set then.” A date to a coffee shop. So that’s what people do nowadays. That’s a hipster thing, for he hasn’t seen it in his 1950s movies. But some things never change. And the only notions of romance he has come from movies, hence his old gentlemanly habits whenever he feels like using them. It’s strange that she likes that. Odd woman. “Next week.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” She nods and tries her best not to beam, praying he can’t see the excitement lighting up her features. He had agreed. That mean that despite her constant, eager chatter, and the awkwardness she occasionally seemed to instill in him, he wanted to see her again. Reba had instinctively known he’d say yes, somehow, but all the same it thrills her to hear him agree to it. Yes, a date. They are going to have a good and proper, stupidly stereotypical, perfect date. She can’t remember the last time she was so excited for something.

As they reach the park, the man looks at the children ice-skating and thinks of a good bench for her to see them… and once more he mentally slaps himself because of that. Being with someone blind when you have your sight in impeccable conditions is hard. At any rate, he finds one nearby, facing the small lake so she can hear them laugh as they play. Perhaps she’ll like that.

They sit down and she bundles beneath her jacket to ward off the cold, closing her eyes to focus on the sounds around her. There’s a distant bird chirping and-, she hears a car slowly pass through the slush, and children’s laughter. They must be sledding or ice skating, snow angels perhaps, and a soft smile slowly crosses her face. This is peace, here, right now. This is contentment.

Dolarhyde leaves the bag with the thermos next to him on the bench, keeping Reba at the other side and he looks at the scenery. His eyes focus on a small family and he narrows his eyes at the mother as she pats her daughter’s back to brush the snow off her coat. The man’s hand moves to hold Reba’s again, as if she was a shield to protect himself from his impulses. “It’s cold. Are you… sure you’re okay?” he asks, his icy eyes still fixed on the woman not too far away from their spot.

He has such large hands, and she knows they’re as strong as the rest of him, but he’s so gentle with her that sometimes she forgets. “A bit, yes,” Reba nods, “But some coffee and I should be fine.”

He tenses when she rests against him but doesn’t pull off. Her soft weight is literally nothing but it feels as if her frame was burning against him. It hurts, but it’s a good aching, it’s because of her and that’s new. Dolarhyde lets go of her hand for a moment to pick up the thermos and serve her a cup of smoking coffee. He holds her hand with his and guides the cup so she can hold it. “Careful, it’s hot.” He doesn’t serve one for himself. He’s warm, he doesn’t need it.

She feels him shift and sits up a bit in return, the sound of pouring coffee welcome and a reminder that, while he’s warm, it’s still terribly cold out. Reba’s touched when he carefully guides her fingers to grasp the cup herself instead of placing it directly in her hand. It’s a small gesture, a simple one, but there’s thought in it. It matters to her. She lifts it to her mouth and tentatively blows on it, feeling the rush of warm steam tickle her face. Taking a tentative sip, Reba smiles and allows a larger swallow now, eyes closing as the hot liquid surges through her.

“This was a great idea, bringing coffee,” She comments and settles back against him, warm contentment increasing as he reaches for her hand.

“Freezing wasn’t an alternative.” And it was something to do in the meantime, just in case he felt absolutely awkward during his walk with her. With the coffee, he has an excuse to focus on something else when his eternal silences invade the air.

She ventures to allow her head to rest on his shoulder, or his upper arm rather in accordance with the difference in their heights, and smiles again. “Are you having a good time?”

The man clears his throat. “I’m fine.” It’s more a reassurance for her than a good answer, truly, but it works. The children laugh and the man’s not amused in the slightest, but he decides to ignore them. When he intends to focus back on the woman he was watching earlier, she’s gone, along with her family. Good. He doesn’t need any distractions.

“You can be honest if you’re not. I know most people find these sorts of walks boring. I suppose I would too, if I could see. I’d just…get used to things.”

“We can be boring together.” The man’s hand returns to hers as he watches the blades drawing figures in the ice. Truth to be told, he’s more than sure that she’s going to get bored of him by tomorrow. He’s a good fuck, but there’s not much you can do with someone who’s difficult to open up to others. She’s a normal human, she can’t understand him, they come from opposite worlds but so far, things have been quiet. He can’t reject her because of that, not when she’s been nothing but patient and kind so far. There are truly no excuses for him to escape even if he wants to do that right now, feeling her warm thin fingers against his.

“If this is being boring, then I like being boring. It’s nice-, this is so nice,  with you.” And it is. It’s normally peaceful enough, but it’s better for him here. The occasional shivers of loneliness that creep at her are warded off, as if he was some sort of shield against them.

Dolarhyde turns to look down at her with the cup of coffee in her hand, oblivious of the situation around her. “Did you get to skate before you went blind?”

“Yes, a few times anyway. My dad would take me to a neighbor’s pond and I’d try and skate around. I was awful at it, embarrassingly terrible, but he was nice enough to pretend I was great. Used to give me little fake medals when we got home. It…it was always silver, so I’d go out and practice some more to get gold.” Reba snorts, laughing into her coffee as she takes another sip. “God, I was terrible, though. Spent more time falling than skating.”

She had a father who loved her, and oddly enough there’s not a strike of jealousy in him at the matter. His father’s been a blank figure all his life and you can’t miss something you never had. Bitter? Perhaps, because he was his first rejection. He abandoned him because he was born the way he was and that’s logical.

(Dolarhyde will never know that his mother lied to his father about Francis’ death at birth. It’s amazing how many things one can be void of due to terrible lies.)

“Sounds like… he was a good man.”

“He was,” She nods, settling back against him and taking a quick sip of her coffee, “He loved me a lot. Never made me feel like I was any different from anyone else.” A thoughtful pause. “I was very lucky.” And he wasn’t, that much Reba knows. He’s never spoken of his parents, never given one shred of insight into his childhood. Perhaps that why he likes to hear her speak of it, asks her from time to time. Perhaps he wants a glimpse of what he was robbed of.

Parents who loved him. Memories that bring him joy. Happiness. She wants to bring him that now, happiness, to earn those smiles from him. The feel the warm skin of his mouth shift and pull back into a smile.

A good father. It’s not strange that a child raised with so much love can end up in someone as Reba McClane and the man truly wonders if he can get a grasp of those days in her words. Because his childhood is nothing interesting to share but hers? That’s something he’s curious about. He wants to know how did the woman destined to him grew up. Became the extraordinary person she is right now.

_She’s too much for you, you pitiful excuse of a man._

“Do you skate at all?” She pauses before asking, because she doubts he did, doubts he has even a fragment of the happy memories she possesses. “You’re very athletic. I’m sure you would have been good at all those sorts of things.” As if to apologize for bringing up questions of his childhood, Reba leans over and briefly, carefully, kisses into his jacket.

“I did, long ago in Paris.” During his adulthood, of course, because he never had something like that in Grandmother’s house. He wasn’t important enough for her to buy him presents, less alone a pair of ice-skating boots.

“Paris? You’ve been to Paris, D?” She grins broadly visibly impressed. “Like, the Paris? No wonder you’re such a gentleman, you’re more cultured than the rest of us.”

Different from everyone else. Perfectly different.

“After the war, in 1989,” Dolarhyde explains as he puts the thermos lid on top to close it. He was aboard the USS Vincennes when the Iran Air Flight 655 was taken down, killing 290 civilians.

“The war?” She questions, surprised by how casual he relays the fact. He doesn’t give many of them and so often they’re interlaced with regular conversation she nearly misses them. “Were you in the military?” A short, but clearly thoughtful pause. “Is that why you’re so strong?” Reba smirks, knowing full well he’ll enjoy the line of inquiry. He’s not exactly used to accepting compliments, (she doesn’t blame him this), but she’s noticed he’s comfortable with comments about his body

“I served in 1988-1989.” He was just seventeen and it was the perfect ticket to escape the hell of his house. Things were difficult those days and they needed as many men as possible to support the troops at the other side of the world. “Iraq-Iran.” Not too much information, and her second question comes lightly but he feels awkward answering. “Do you…” this is a moment of vanity and the man is truly curious about it, “… like me… strong?” He’s sure he likes his body, but he needs to hear it.

The grin turns wry then and Reba tugs herself a bit closer to him, “Like you strong? No no no, I love you strong.” And she does. Reba McClane has never had much of a desire to be protected, but that doesn’t mean she can’t appreciate the fact that Francis is very clearly strong enough to protect her and more. “No one’s ever carried me-, no one’s ever even been strong enough to carry me, I think, not since I was like…seven or something.” She knows she’s blushing now because she’s thinking of his hands under her thighs, holding her as if she weighed nothing at all.

So she likes him powerful and that he’ll be for her. It’s not about training or muscles only but his presence by her side. Like his shadow, keeping a close watch of whoever decides to step on her path.

A question pops in his mind. “Have you ever been abroad?”

More than a few memories flood in her mind at that and she flushes, quickly forcing her thoughts elsewhere. “No,” She admits with a quiet sigh, pursing her lips together, “I flew out to California once, to visit relatives, but mostly I’ve been stuck around here. See, you’re more worldly than I am, D,” She sounds at the word as if it’s something to be feasted upon, a bright smile immediately following, “You’ll have to tell me more about it. I’d love to hear everything, if you’d be alright with it.”

“Travelling is good.” Dolarhyde had a period of escaping from himself to, ironically, find his core again and after the war, in order to find his center, he visited several countries. “Things smell differently, taste differently. You… experiment new things.” It’s stimulating to know that he has an inclination to savor sensations rather than activities. He can stay at the Louvre staring at the same painting for hours if it catches his interest, for example. Or sit by Seine feeling the breeze and the scent of the river filling his nostrils. And she’s curious about all these things, of course, being void of so many things. He wishes she could see it all but then again, she’d see -him- and that would be the end of the fairy tale.

“If I ever make it to Paris,” Reba muses, a smile playing at the corner of her lips, “I’m taking you with me, deal? You can show me around all the places I shouldn’t miss and all the places the tourists don’t know about.”

Anyone would think it’s a waste for a blind person to travel to ‘see’ other horizons when they can’t obviously see shit, but not for him. She’s teaching him indirectly what it feels like to be in her world, realizing about things that one could take for granted, and Dolarhyde can afford the price of a trip for both together, paying him for everything. “We’ll go."

What the hell is he thinking about to agree with something like that? First time sleeping with her and he’s already thinking on a holiday together? What’s wrong with him?

_You’re not going to fucking anywhere with her._

There’s an earnestness to her next question, laced within her words that’s quiet.  “Would you mind helping guide me with… new places? A lot of people mind.”

“I could cook you something from the places I visited.”

_What the fuck are you doing? You retarded piece of filth, shut your mouth right this second._

Azure eyes narrow in deep thought. “I still remember.” The sensation of speed and freedom was something nice. Something like…

“Come on,” he suggests and takes her cup of coffee away from her to leave it on the bench. The man holds her hand to help her stand up and head towards the place where they rent the boots. “I’ll show you.” It’s a bold idea for him, especially with all the people surrounding them, but it’s not so serious like a kiss.

Reba’s careful not to drop the coffee on him in her surprise, uncertain at first of what’s happening, but as the voices grow louder she suddenly understands. She clings to him carefully, not wanting to bump into anything. She breaks into a wide grin, holds back a laugh of sheer, pure excitement. “Oh god, D, I’m terrible, don’t you hold it against me.”

“It will be fine.” He aids her to sit on a new bench where he helps her get the boots he rented on after putting on his own first and once ready, he faces the issue of helping her stand without making her trip. Grinning ear to ear as he helps her with her skates, Reba clutches onto him tightly once they make their way onto the ice. At first, it’s just his hand on hers and a then a palm on her back, only to end up with him holding her from her waist as he skates backwards slowly, pulling from Reba. It’s been a while, but he has a perfect balance, and if she asked him, he could probably carry her up in his arms. But of course, that’s not going to happen.

The man watches as her figure glides with him and she’s floating like an ethereal goddess over the white mantle. She’s so radiant that he’s afraid she’ll melt the ice, and he is aware of the men that look at her as they pass by, their eyes fixed on her figure, fucking shits. No matter. She’s no one but his.

Reba’s eyes flutter shut in utterly contentment as she glides, coaxed along by him. A bright pelt of laughter escapes her and she’s never felt more at peace than this. The cold air rushing around her is leveled by the warmth flooding from deep, intangible spaces she hadn’t known to be empty until him. No one treats her like this, like she can be brave and whole and capable. She could soar now, faster and faster, in his arms.  He’s helping her, yes but not out of pity.

But because he wants her to feel.

Reba shifts to face him then, tugging at his sleeves to pull her right up against him. She wants to kiss him, terribly in fact, but that’d be selfish in the midst of so many. Instead, she wraps her arms tightly around him and rests her head against his shoulder, pressing a kiss into his jacket. “Thank you,” Reba’s voice is quiet, touched with an almost desperate earnestness, as if her words were burning on her tongue, “Thank you, for this.”

He got it right; she appreciates the fact that he knows that if she can’t see, she can feel and the sensation of freedom while skating can be satisfying, even if a solid frame like his is guiding you. He realizes that they are standing in the middle of the small lake, surrounded by children and families and the sight disgusts him, so Dolarhyde gently pulls her apart as fast as possible to hide from the spotlight. Truth to be told, one or two people are staring at the ‘lovely couple’ especially because she’s blind.

_Why don’t you look at your own dick, you fucking asshole._

They resume their skating slowly as he takes her to circle the artificial lake, careful to not bump against anyone. “Parisians are rude,” he begins as a preamble of what she requested, to tell her about the places he visited. “But I… liked the city in general even if I’m not comfortable… in large crowds. Visiting the Eiffel Tower may be too obvious, but if it’s not too crowded such as early in the morning, and you enjoy the sounds of the city under you, then yes, it’s a good place.”

It’s silent for a moment while she runs her tongue over her bottom lip, save for the soft scratch of their skates over ice. “Can’t blame them, I guess, because people don’t want to be invaded by tourists.”

"If we’re going together, it’d be stupid if I didn’t tell you what we’re seeing.” Dolarhyde slows down, wrapping his arm tighter around her waist and pulling her closer until they are face to face. She’s full of life and excitement at the idea of going with him that it can be read on her face.

_What are you? A guide for retards now?_

Dolarhyde cups her cheeks and looks into her eyes, void of light and yet full of expression. “I’ll be your guide. I don’t know how… good I’ll be but I’ll try.”

_And you’ll fail, like with everything you do._

A slow smile spreads over her lips, its warmth shining in her cheeks and even in her blank gaze. “Yeah?” She can’t keep the excitement from creeping into her words, even if he is joking. (Reba desperately hopes he isn’t). He pulls her closer then and Reba wraps her arms around his frame, leaning upwards into his touch.

He’s throwing himself into an empty pool but he doesn’t care. For the first time in his life, he’s being absolutely irrational (according to his standards) and letting himself be driven by his passion. But he can envision both on the plane, at the hotel, visiting the highlights of Paris and he mentally whacks himself from that. He’s dreaming of a life he’ll never have, at least based on lies and deceit. And she doesn’t deserve that, but he can’t help it. He simply can’t. “Yes,” he answers, with the certainty that he will indeed carry on with the plan.

“I like when you help me,” she nods and it’s a strange admittance, not the sort of thing she’s ever willingly share, but with him, things are different. “When you described the trees this morning, I could see them. Well-, I…I know I envisioned them wrong, but-,” Reba moves forward a bit and rests her head against his chest, voice growing soft, “Your voice is so beautiful, Francis, and when you speak, you talk about things other people don’t notice. You’d make a perfect guide. I could see everything if you told it to me.”

_You’re going to destroy her. Good._

A pang in his chest strikes him at His words but he tries to brush them away. His voice, with his issue and all. She likes it, and he hates it. But she finds it unique and he’s getting used to the idea that she sees other things that are ordinary for others like something special, and appreciates them. He can’t understand it, but if she likes them, he’ll provide as much as he can, considering his hermetic personality. “Thank you.” The man’s hand slowly reaches up to rest on the back of her head as she wraps her arms around his waist. “I’ll… try my best.”

_Which means you’ll fail. Like always._

The man closes his eyes for a moment and proceeds to deliver her to the spot where their shoes are waiting for them. The Dragon continues in his head, humiliating him and hammering thoughts that can only lead him to have a terrible headache. Or something worse. “We should get going.” The man’s voice has changed, it’s lower now, and he’s evidently tense but not rude. “I must attend some things back home.”

_Bring her here. I want to play with her._

The man’s eyes go wide. He’s showing interest in her and this is going to end up badly if he doesn’t return and remains by his side.

She works to undo the laces of her skates still glowing from his offer and the idea of spending time with him in some place beautiful, just the two of them. “Oh?” Reba slips her boots off all the quicker and stands up, brushing her jacket off. He sounds different, that gentle caution fading from his voice. “I hope I didn’t hold you up. I…, here-,” She takes his hand before he can say anything else, lacing their fingers together, “We can hurry back if we need to.” Reba doesn’t want this to end, of course, wants to keep feeling the cool air around her soothed by his burning touch, but he’s agreed to coffee next week.

Dolarhyde picks up the thermos with the cups to put them in the bag as he waits for her to take his arm. “No, it’s fine. I just… need to go home.” He must pretend everything’s okay or else he’ll fuck up everything and that’s not an option.

Slowly, they make their way back to her house as he warns her about icy patches on the sidewalk. It’s so weird to find himself in this situation, where his human side takes over to be a decent man, someone whose tenderness has been dormant for years and finds itself awake now, at full blast. He feels sick of himself.

She hears the change in his voice, the shifting of something in his tone. Reba wants to ask, of course, if she’s done something wrong, if she’s pushed too far or assumed too much, but somehow she knows, instinctively, that it’s not truly her fault. He’s worried and it occurs to her that this must surely be the most he’s interacted with anyone, certainly a woman, in ages and Francis Dolarhyde who doesn’t care much to talk and doesn’t like to be touched has allowed both. He’s engaged her, more than just physically, and Reba understands there’s something here more than just mere physical attraction. There has been, from the moment she touched his mouth and his fingers mapped out her face as if she was the most beautiful he’d ever touched.

Perhaps she is.

Once inside, he makes himself sure she’s in the comfort of her house to roam around freely and he clears his throat, looking at the door. Wanting to escape but also wanting to stay the rest of the day with the woman, as he promised. Dolarhyde approaches and steals a kiss from her, like a child kissing his first girlfriend. “I’ll go now,” he announces, and his lips part again to deepen the kiss but he pulls back. “I’ll… see you at work… tomorrow.” And silently, the man leaves, carefully closing the door behind him.

He’s hurried and she nods when he leans in for a kiss, smiling into it despite her confusion. “Alright,” She brushes a few pieces of hair behind her ear, reaching out very quickly to rest a hand against his chest. Reba imagines she can feel his heartbeat through his jacket. “Drive safe with all the snow. I-, yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow.” She smiles, biting back how much she wants him to stay, “Have a good afternoon, Francis.”

The door shuts and she’s alone. Reba simply stands, unsure quite what to think or feel, but she knows she’s cold now and the house feels impossibly empty, lonely even. She slips her boots off and then her jacket. She smells him in the fabric, that deep, now familiar musk, and smiles distantly as she hangs it up. The sheets goes in the dryer and she absently pads around the house, washing dishes and trying to find something to do to occupy her time until tomorrow. He’s always at the back of her mind, no matter what she tries to fill it with, and when she crawls into bed, she smiles and her last thoughts are of him.

The Dragon’s voice is clear and loud as he drives back home and he knows what’s going to happen. He takes a deep intake of breath as he reaches the antique house before entering and making his way upstairs, jumping every two steps at the wooden stairs. Knowing that he must behave, the man removes his clothes and remains standing in front of the painting, waiting for orders.

_Filthy boy, I hope you’re satisfied fucking that whore because you’re going to pay for that._

Dolarhyde listens, looking down at the painting’s frame, trying to avoid its ‘stare’.

_Take my teeth and bite your arm. Hard. Do it!_

He does as he’s requested and the crooked dental piece applies pressure on his forearm, frowning, knowing that this isn’t all he’s going to do.

_Harder!_

He’s a strong man, and his jaw works as he feels the sharp pieces deep in his muscles. Dolarhyde closes his eyes, because he must endure. The Dragon is always right, he mustn’t deny his requests.

_You’re going to do the same with her. She’ll know my Greatness._

His eyes are glassy, he can almost feel the sensation of the fibers almost being cut, even if he knows He’d never produce enough damage on his arm for him to keep it useless. He must still do things to reach his Glory.

_Do you think you’re going to get away with this? You’ll get that cunt to the house and I’ll also have some fun with her. Stop biting yourself now._

There are tears running down his cheeks. Dolarhyde looks down at his arm, red, and wet. It stings when he releases it, and he’s sure this is going to bruise for days. “She’s… not special.”

_Enough for you to act like a fucking puppet. I’m going to destroy her, I’ll tear her apart so easily you’ll have to use your memory to recognize her parts._

“No, mlease.” He’s losing his control over his speech and it shows. The man kneels in front of Him and bows his head, eyes closed.

_You’re going to do what you must. The Smiths are waiting for their transformation. You’ve wasted too much time with this slut. Go now and make me proud._

There’s nothing more than he wants but making him feel like that. And he’s going to work his ass out for that purpose. Being torn by two is painful, but so is life and his will improve once he becomes One with Him. Like a lost child, he clings to his Power in order to survive, and he is after all, one, for he has never known anything about life until His existence. Reba’s a distraction, he knows. And curling in fetal position, the Dragon’s last words echo in his head while his flesh remember the woman’s kisses on it, as if he was the eight wonder in the world.

And perhaps for her, he is.


	5. Chapter 5

Sleep comes and goes during the night. Memories of their encounter, words and the irremediable need to see him haunt her in bed. She’s embarrassed by how much time and effort she puts into her outfit the next morning, carefully slipping on a blouse and a small silver necklace. Reba even guides her finger slowly over her lips to put on a small bit of lipstick, dark enough to bring out the hues of her beautiful skin. When the bus drops her off at the door, she buys two cups of coffee from the cafeteria and slips into the darkroom, setting one carefully at the corner of the table. She hopes he comes, wishes he comes, and Reba buries herself in her work to try and not to linger on it.

The the bite mark is dark and painful. Even for a strong man like him, he winces as he touches his arm, where the Dragon’s teeth sank with all its fury due to his lack of strength to fight the temptation the woman represents. It’s rather hot in Gateway in contrast with the gelid temperature outside, but still, he wears long sleeves. The bruise is hot, burning hot and he didn’t apply ice afterwards because he must remind himself of what he has done, what has infuriated Him. Dolarhyde makes his way to his office, turns on the computer and sits still for a moment, watching the screen wallpaper with the company logo.

There’s something lacking today and he can’t figure out what.

The woman finds herself checking her phone more often than she’d care to admit, swiping and clicking the app which reads the time aloud. It’s 9:30 already and no sign from him. Reba purses her lips together, telling herself not to be worried, that he’ll come say hello eventually. He’s shy, after all, even in their privacy yesterday he was tremendously shy. Time and time again she considers going to visit him herself, and in truth, finds she wants to tug him into her space and kiss him again, but Reba knows people must already be talking. He wouldn’t like that, Francis, to have people talking even more about him than they already do, and for that she waits in her office.

Without pause, he continues his previous work, a television show edition, and keeps his mind focused in that. The faces and happy voices of the file he’s working with come and go, dull, artificial. After two hours he takes a break to rest his eyes, closing them for a few minutes and in the middle of the darkness, he remembers: Reba.

She didn’t come to greet him today.

The man frowns at this. So that’s it? He’s just a one night stand? It’d be nothing for someone else but for Dolarhyde it’s disrespectful from her. How dare this woman not take a moment to greet him after what they shared yesterday? He should have known. Falling into her trap like a fool was easy and he didn’t consider anything and pause to think what he was doing. The Dragon was right. He’s an idiot, a pitiful idiot. 

Determined to discuss it with the Reba, Dolarhyde makes his way to the dark room in order to… who knows what. But she must hear him, whatever comes out of his mouth in the precise second he sees her, she will hear him. He ignores the fact that he does need to see her, because even if he tries to push the fact back, he’s been marked. He knocks twice before entering, not minding if she accepts his interruption or not.

There’s a sound, two knocks, against the door and before she can say a word it opens. She feels her heart beat faster. “D? Is that you?

The man slowly enters the darkroom and finds two cups of coffee on the counter. So she’s been with someone else. Who knows how many she has fucked after he left her house. Who knows how many have touched her like he did, penetrated her, whispered hotly against her ear. His fists curl tight at the sight, jaw set and he turns around to leave but he doesn’t.

To say what, exactly?

“You’ve been busy,” he states, still keeping his back to her, not ready to face the woman.

“Bored, mostly,” She replies and stands, briefly trying to hold back a smile before allowing herself to give into it fully, “There’s some coffee if you want it. I’m sorry if it’s cold by now and coffee’s awful when you have to microwave it.” He hasn’t come closer, she hasn’t heard his footsteps, and Reba gently picks up the coffee to offer it. “Just some tapes from the third floor, they didn’t tell me what they were so I suppose I can imagine them to be all sorts of scandalous things.”

Coffee for him. Dolarhyde looks at the cup with disdain. He’s not going to drink someone else’s waste, especially if it’s been touched by her lover’s lips. Because he’s already imagining a man, much better looking than him kissing her, lifting her on the counter and touching her lewdly. And she offered herself to him. But her next words prove him wrong, and the beast in him relaxes. Just a bit, because he can’t control his passion for this woman, passions that are both positive and negative at the same time, in a maze of emotions where he easily gets lost.

He knows what kind of tapes she’s talking about and she’s not very far away from the truth. “It’s Walt”. He’s the one who sends them, and they generally reach his hands when there’s something akin to an orgy on the film. Of course he’d give them to Reba. “They’re surely not very good.” Awful, rather.

She snorts softly, gesturing over her shoulder to her desk. “I’ve heard the rumors about him. I try not to listen to those sorts of things but knowing him, I don’t doubt I’m stuck working with the sort of shit that makes most people blush.” Reba neglects to mention that Walt’s hit on her before, repeatedly and lazily, with that assumed sort of arrogance so many men seem to follow. Poor blind Reba, someone who must be impossibly lonely in that dark world of hers, no doubt begging for a handsome man to hold her hand and incur the sort of gratitude that results in sexual favors.

He can go fuck himself.

He’s still too far away from her and Reba runs her tongue over her lip, stomach twisting a bit in her nervousness. These things take time. He takes time. “I was afraid people might talk if I walked right up to your desk with this,” She nods, fingers curling around the coffee, “And I know you wouldn’t want that, so I waited. I don’t mind it people talk,” A small hint of a wry smile returns, “They can talk all they want for I care, but I didn’t want to make things difficult for you. I was going to try and sneak over at lunch, well, as much as any blind person can, but you beat me to it.”

She’s right. He’d have hated if someone walked in on them kissing or even talking. She’s clever, and he appreciates that even if he’s still stiff from his previous thoughts. Because even if she clarifies it, the ghost of someone else in her life lingers, no matter how many times she has told him yesterday that he was perfect and beautiful. Words can be just that, words. And sometimes you can use them to make someone feel good out of pity. And he despises that.

She rocks back on her heels and she thinks of last night, of how dreadfully empty her house felt with him. Reba sets the coffee down and steps forward, and reaches a hand out until she finds him. Her hand lightly curls into his sleeve and she stands on her tiptoes, pressing her lips to the corner of his mouth, her corner. “Good morning.”

His arms don’t curl immediately around her, as one would expect from any normal man who’s shared a lot with her the previous day. There are still things to talk about, things that he is in no position to deal with right now, but he can give her a hint of who he is if she fucks up with this vulnerable state in which he is and she’s at fault for it. “People will talk,” he comments with his voice, just a bit lower than usual, and it doesn’t sound like him, even if it’s his voice in the end.

It’s -someone else.-

“Of course they will,” Reba replies plainly. His voice sounds different, not…not angry-, just different somehow, and she furrows her brow. “People always talk, because if they stopped and looked at themselves they’d realize how impossibly dull their own lives are. They need to look at something else, something that will deflect attention.” She pauses.

He hums approvingly her reply. “But people can… ruin our reputation with lies and… nasty comments.” That should give her an idea of what he’s thinking, or why does he not approve to be seen with her so intimately close together. For someone as traumatized as he is in regards to social interactions, one would assume that something of an intimate nature is not to be taken lightly. But if he tells her that, she’ll think that he’s already marrying her or something.

(Not that he’s not already doing it. Because let’s face it, how many chances could anyone count with Dolarhyde dating another woman while he’s seeing Reba?)

Snorting lightly, her fingers press lightly against his chest. “Let me tell you something, D, if my reputation is going to supposedly be ruined by being with someone, I’d want that someone to be you. I don’t care about my reputation, it’s not what defines me.” It’s her blindness, at least that’s what most think, but she doesn’t care for the opinions of most, of any really.

Save him.

“You say that now but…” She’s brave but stupid in that sense. And yes, bravery comes together with stupidity most of the time. Only a few get it right; the rest are merely spectators of their own downfall. It’s too late to create a new profile for Dolarhyde, but the woman has a life that’s been built on kindness and sweetness, very different from the man. “You’ll regret your words sooner or later.” He sighs with frustration and looks away, knowing that there’s no way he’ll convince her to finish what they have. Whatever it is.

(Not that he wants to.)

“I’d like to be seen with you and I don’t care what anyone thinks but you. Does it bother you to be seen with me, Francis?” It slips out before she can stop herself and a cloud briefly flickers over her features. It’s a hidden fear, that, but she’s told him she’d be honest and now she must. She owes him that.

“I’d… I need to think.” It’s the best he can come up with. Something vague but not a definitive negative either. “I need to see things from a different perspective.” It’s not false. He really needs to figure out what the fuck is he going to do with this.

_Have fun and ditch her._

That’s not something he’d do, even if he was a normal man. It’s not because he’s a gentleman but because he wouldn’t want others to do that to him. And strangely so, for -some- things, the man has the policy of ‘don’t do things to others you don’t want to be done on yourself’. Morals have a hard time to weight equally than immorality in his scale of what’s good and right. And there’s certain… order for everything inside him but since yesterday, things don’t seem to be properly set in place. The order he had before her, that is.

Carefully, one his palms moves up to her shoulder to push the silk of her shirt aside and the man lowers his head, his mouth just inches above. Dolarhyde bares his teeth, opening his mouth ready to bite her shoulder hard enough to tear chunks of skin and flesh but he restrains himself from doing so. He has claimed her, and if someone else decides to attempt it, they’ll pay. But she’s safe for now. She’s still pure. The man’s lips rest right over the curve at the joint between her neck and shoulder and kisses her there. “Good morning,” he finally says, just to make things right from zero, all over again.

Reba inhales as his fingers move to her blouse and she wonders if he means to take it off. His breath is warm against her skin and she’s still, waiting, but he finally kisses her and she smiles. Her head turns to the side and she sneaks a kiss into his hair. “You sound tired,” She offers softly, “I hope I didn’t keep you from anything important yesterday.” The scent of him hits her nose, that cologne, and it takes everything in her power to keep from folding herself into his arms and burying her head against his chest, closing her eyes and soaking his up warmth.

He presses another kiss on her shoulder and moves up to the back of her ear as his hand finds her slim waist. He remembers her skin under those clothes and Dolarhyde closes his eyes with a twisted smile on his face. If only the rest knew how much she moaned his name two nights ago. “No, it was fine.” He leans back to look down at her, looking for some reaction, not used to the fact that she’s blind. “Something I needed to check.” The 'ch’ sounds stronger than it does with any normal person.

_You sound stupider than normal._

“You have to do what you have to,” she says gently and she wants him to hold her like he did yesterday when they were skating, to wrap his muscled arms around her waist and pull her in gently. He was warm, he always is. She misses it, can feel the slightest bit of it in the distance between them. “I understand that. I respect that.” And she does, in her own way. He’s clearly cautious in all that he does, Francis Dolarhyde, and he’s clearly cautious with her. She wonders sometimes what it means, if she’s doing something wrong, but instinctively Reba can sense she’s doing something very right with him. He’s worth the time.

“I hope you… slept well last night.” There, something to talk akin to normalcy.

“Slept very well,” she admits, biting the corner of her lip to hide a smile, “Got a bit cold without you, but I managed. If….if the coffee’s too cold for you, I can get you another if you’d like.” Be bold, Reba, don’t you falter, “You can come eat lunch with me back here if you want. No one would bother us, hell, no one bothers me back here. I think they find it a little unnerving, poor blind Reba stuck back in the dark.”

There’s hesitation before he can go for it, but he kisses her and she all but melts beneath his lips, smiling and moving closer to his touch. Reba purrs softly, her own hands slipping down to his waist. She rests herself against him, pressing a quick line of kisses along his shoulder. Her cheeks are hot and she’s more than glad for the darkness to conceal it, but she thinks of how his hands had caressed every inch of her, drawn sighs out of her.

She finds she wants him again, here and now, and works to push the thoughts again.

It’s funny because he didn’t ‘miss’ her body in his bed at night. His arm was in too much pain to think of something else but it did feel strange to sleep alone again. “But we can go to the cafeteria. I don’t mind it.” They’ll sit together and talk, but they won’t kiss or touch, of course. He may seem like a puritan but if he’s going to burn in hell, so be it. “We can be… friends for the others.”

Another kiss coming from her. It’s gentle, because she’s missed him and his words have seared her in ways she doesn’t expect he can even fully grasp at it, and before Reba leans back she plants one final kiss against his scar. “There we are,” she smiles, evidently quite pleased, “Couldn’t go off to lunch without kissing you properly. Wouldn’t have been able to focus on anything else.” Reba grins then, biting her lip and welcoming the touch of his large hands through her hair.

She reaches for her purse and makes certain she has her wallet, touching the edges of it before nodding and slipping it over her shoulder. “I don’t normally need my cane, but if you could make sure I don’t run into anything out of place, I’d appreciate it.” He kept her safe yesterday, not a single stumble or trip, and she opens the darkroom door to step out onto the main floor. It’s strange to consider she has her lover beside her, someone who’s known and worshiped every inch of her, and not a single person aside from him knows it. Reba decides she enjoys the secrecy of it and bites the inside of her lip as she walks towards the cafeteria.

“I’ll be your eyes.” And off they go to the cafeteria. The man whispers from time to time when she has to turn right or left, though she manages because she knows the path really well. There are glances directed at them, mostly at him because it’s very difficult to understand that he’s with another human being instead of on his own with his magazines. Dolarhyde finds a seat for both and there’s tension in his back because he knows people are talking about them.

_You’re a pussy._

He may be, but it doesn’t bother him. If she was someone else, he’d ignore her completely and tell her to go fuck herself because he’s no one’s maid. But it’s impossible to do it now. There’s a connection and he hates it as much as he likes it.

He’s an excellent guide, better than most, if not any save her mother, because he doesn’t keep her from walking. She’s had to ask for help before in new places and normally people are terrified for her, speaking slowly as if she was some sort of idiot, but Francis seems to understand that she’s mostly capable on her own, only needs help with the occasional bit of direct. It puts a smile on her face as she enters the cafeteria, feeling the change of materials beneath her shoes and the clicking of silverware and sounds of laughter reverberating off metal walls.

“You’re very good at this,” She concedes to him a small private smile, the sort that hints at an understanding only shared by them.

“I’ll pick my food. You can go and take yours after to save the table for us.” No, he’s not going to deliver her food, she’s more than capable of doing it on her own. “But… if you need me, I’ll pick it up for you.” Just in case. He’s so full of contradictions.

“Don’t worry, I won’t let anyone take your seat.” Reba hears his footsteps grow quieter and bites the corner of her lip to hide a grin, fingers carefully combing through her purse to find her wallet. He doesn’t have the same ease he had seemingly acquired by yesterday afternoon, comfortable enough to wrap his arms around her waist and pull her close, but it’s evident to her that he’s trying very hard and she appreciates that deeply. The others at Gateway said he always sits by himself when he’s not alone in his office, generally with a book or magazine to keep him company and allow him an excuse to look busy enough to avoid communicating. They had said other things about him, mostly the men, cruel things, and Reba had little tolerance for it and in turn, they’d mostly stopped around her. However, she still heard the occasional bit of speculative gossip when she entered a room unexpectedly, onto to die off when she showed up. Yes, she’s proud of him for this, for allowing himself to be seen with her, seen in public.

Her stomach growls after a bit and she stands up, folding a napkin or two over the table to make it appear like it’s taken, and slowly works her way over to the line.

The man waits at the line and the girl in front of him turns around to look at him with a faint smile. Dolarhyde considers this as a threat, because for some reason he believes that everyone knows. “What?” Paranoia strikes and brings up to the surface the worst of his manners.

“Nothing, Jesus. Just-” Cyndi looks upset but not shocked at his antics due to the fact that he’s a weirdo for most and a hermit when it comes to social interaction. She had all the intention to poke into him to get him to talk about his ‘girlfriend’ but it seemed like a very bad idea. The man on the other hand, keeps a death glare on the young woman, ready to attack if she dares to comment something on Reba and him.

Her brow furrows as she hears his voice. It’s more abrupt than usual, not as careful, and Reba allows herself to step towards him. She hears a woman begin to reply and recognizes it, coughing once before someone gets up, “Cyndi! Hey, can we meet this afternoon?” Reba’s interrupting now, but it’s for the best. If it comes off as rude, she’ll just blame it on being blind. “I have some film I just can’t quite seem to get and I know you’d be perfect to help out.” She beams a smile and Cyndi seems to accept this, replying with a quick ‘sure’ and then her heels click away.

“Sorry,” Reba confesses quietly, a hint of a bashful smile remaining and she turns to pluck an orange from a basket of fruit, “I got hungry. Figured I could scare her off, too. She talks a lot if you’re not careful.”

Dolarhyde’s jaw is set and he keeps a firm hold of his tray before moving after her on the line. Reba’s presence brings him back to earth and his eyes move from the other woman to the dishes displayed to pick one. “Thank you.” He must admit that she had a good idea in shooing her off if she didn’t want him to bite her head off.

Not a bad idea at all.

“No need to thank me,” Reba replies lightly, grabbing a cup of coffee and moving towards the register, “She means well, Cyndi, but she talks so much it can give you a headache before long.” She smiles gently and reaches for her wallet, sliding over a credit card and making a note to go see her this afternoon. She sounded upset, not unrightly in truth, and Reba makes a mental note to pay her a visit after lunch. “Best way to deal with her is to tell her you’re in a hurry, smile, and tell her you’ll swing by her office later. She’ll forget about the whole thing in ten minutes and you won’t have to swing by.”

Means well. Right. Cyndi’s a fucking slut that was going to make a dirty comment about him and Reba. Mostly about him because he has been seen with the woman too close from one morning to the next. Not to mention their disappearance the day after they left Gateway together. He can clearly hear in his head her voice. ‘Tired of fapping, Mr. D?’, 'You’re the worst that could happen to her’, 'Get a fucking life’. Those among the most amiable, of course, because in her mind she must be thinking the worse. “I don’t talk with people like her.” And by mentioning her, by proxy, he basically means the entire building. It’s too late, truly. Rumors have already been spread and the 'news’ about the freak and the blind are in everybody’s ears by now. “It’s fine. It’s useless.” Dolarhyde sounds almost defeated and takes a bite of his sandwich.

She shifts her weight a bit, fingers tapping lightly against the outside of her coffee cup. “She’s not all that bad. Bit nosy, maybe, but she means well despite it. She helped me set up my office when I first moved in. I…I think it was out of curiosity more than anything at first, but she was sweet and checked in on me the first few days.” Reba attempts a small smile, not altogether sure why she feels the need to defend Cyndi. She doesn’t even like her, not all that much, but she feels the impulse to assure him, somehow, that he’s not quite as alone as he thinks himself to be.

Lies. She’s lying to him and he can tell. She could never get along with someone as disgusting as Cyndi, no matter what she says. True, Reba probably gets along with everybody. And there she is, talking with the most unlikely of men who can normally socialize at Gateway. “Okay.” And with that, the conversation is over, at least for him.

She blinks. It’s an abrupt ending to their talk, even for him, and Reba shifts her weight a bit, recognizing that clearly he doesn’t care to talk about Cyndi any longer. She takes a small sip of her coffee, smiling faintly. Reba wonders what he must have heard about her, how he reacted.

What he will hear, how he will react.

Is having a person beside you something that’s supposed to be a secret? He’s seen many movies and read many books in which that is a reality, but of course, the circumstances are very different. Star-crossed lovers, impossible couples, Beauty and the Beast and the whole shebang. But how close to reality a tale can be that it all feels surreal and true? The man takes a look at her. She’s the culprit of this. She shouldn’t have been kind to him, or beautiful, or sweet and curious about that shy, nervous and pitiful man she met that day.

It’s all her fault for liking him.

But he wouldn’t trade that moment for anything in the world. The way she smiled at him despite his grunts and almost rude behavior, despite the little to zero attention he paid to her until… it was too late. Until offering her a ride back home, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

That day, the moon was the sun and the dark was full of light.

Reba doesn’t suppose it will be all that longer until the rest of Gateway finds out. After all, on their own, both she and Francis certainly must stand out in a crowd. Together? People are bound to notice sooner than later. It doesn’t bother her at all, but she knows the sort of questions they’ll both face and worse yet, the whispers that will carry behind their backs. She’s heard them before, of course, and they dig under her skin and cut and burn into her, but she’s learned how to steel herself. She wonders if he has.

Dolarhyde takes orange juice, heads towards their table and begins to eat as 'delicately’ as he can, not waiting for her to arrive before consuming his meal. Bad manners, one would think, but it’s simply the fact that he never had anyone to share anything. And it’s all new. “I… thought she was going to talk. About us.” He’s not trying to excuse himself but rather inform her of what would have happened if he continued speaking.

Her fingernails dig into the cool flesh of the orange, the bright scent of citrus filling the air. Reba blinks, pausing as he explains his worry, only to stop entirely. She sets her orange down, reaching out for a napkin and snagging one. She wipes her hands slowly, clearly in thought, and speaks gently. “I do think people will talk. They think we’re just friends now, but people don’t think a man and a woman can just be friends. Before long they’ll start assuming more. I’ll tell them it’s not true if you’d like, if it would make you more comfortable.”

“They’ll think I’m a pus-…” He pauses to correct himself. “That I’m weak.”

A pained expression causes her face, as if his half of a word had struck her, and she swipes her tongue over her lower lip. “I don’t think they would think that, D, I…I don’t know why they would think that.” Reba’s fingers fidget with each other now. He’s afraid. He’s afraid of what being with her means. Reba’s afraid now, worried that being seen with her is enough for people to think he’s weak, weak for pausing to help her and guide her when she needs it. “I don’t really think anyone would look at you and think you’re weak. You’re…you’re the stronger person I’ve ever met.”

It’s true and her stomach sinks with the realization. “Do you think they’d think you’re weak because you’re seeing a blind woman?” She firms her jaw, reaching for her coffee and taking a long sip. “I think that makes you good, if my opinion counts for anything. If they think you’re weak as an extension of my-, weakness,” she hates the word, it fills like bile on her tongue, “Then they’re wrong.”

“It’s not that. I’m…” A being that’s not supposed to be here to begin with, wasting his time with you. “It’s complicated.”

Reba slowly returns to peeling her orange, raising her finger to her lips and absently licks off a bit of pulp. She isn’t sure what he means by that, except perhaps it isn’t her, and the knot in her stomach eases but remains. “I won’t pretend to know everything, especially when it’s quite clear that I don’t,” Reba offers gently, tilting her head slightly and popping the first slice of orange into her mouth. “But you can try and tell me if you want. I’ll listen, gladly, too.” She pauses, chewing thoughtfully. “I can understand a lot of things most people don’t.” The urge to lean over and kiss him is tremendous and she forces herself to focus, to sit still. They understand each other when they touch, when his skin glides over against her own. It’s difficult now to be unable to grasp at that, at him, and she pays all the more attention to his tone for it. “We don’t have to talk about it here. We…if you want, sometime we can find somewhere else, somewhere more private and we can talk if you’d like that.”

The silence is awkward and he knows she’s expecting him to do something, say something but he can’t bring himself to do it. And never in front of other people. Dolarhyde feels caged, observed by everybody and cornered, and when that happens, he raises his walls up, higher and higher and no one can penetrate them.

He doesn’t want to talk about the topic ever. Especially not with her. What should he say? That he’s been nature’s mistake since the moment he was born? That he has the urge to change others in order to become stronger? That the voice in his head is telling him that he should dump her and stop wasting his time? “I don’t want to… talk… about it.” The man wants to curl with her in the dark, in a place where no one can see them and fall asleep in her lap, because it’d be the closest to death he could experience. Sweet, comfortable death.

Reba takes a small, tentative bite of her orange. “Alright.” She nods after a moment, and it’s a decisive, definitive motion, “Then we won’t talk about it. And I won’t ask.” She wants to but she won’t if he wants to discuss it with her, that’s his tale to tell. Already he’s offered up so much of himself, Francis, and she thinks of his fingertips gently caressing her face. He had no friends, they called him a monster-, even now she can sense him struggling. He truly is a symphony of contradictions, each one perplexing on its own, but all together they form something she finds unbelievably beautiful.

She has the particular power of calming him with her silence, especially when she respects his wishes and allows the topic to die there. The man hums softly and looks around them, checking that no one is watching before he can approach to her ear. “Thank you.” It’s simple and his breath curls around her ear, but there’s a deeper meaning hidden underneath. He can’t even bring himself to look at the woman. Every eye on the cafeteria is upon him, judging him and talking shit behind his back. Suddenly, he spots two men laughing and looking at him and Dolarhyde replies with a death glare. His coworkers look away, evidently disturbed. “I want you to… come home tonight. My house.”

She bites the corner of her lip to hide a smile, fingers toying with her orange. “Yeah? Does that mean all my talking hasn’t annoyed you too much yet?”  The smile appears despite her best attempts. “I’d love to come over, D.”

His eyes are cast downwards, watching her hands as he lowers his head as if he was asking his high-school sweetheart for a date something that’s ludicrous since it never happened. “I want you to come and stay the night.” It’s a test, for himself and Him. He needs to know if he’s allowed to have her, if they can coexist, if the man can have a moment of peace, a reward for his hard work and his troubled life. “I… need you in my bed.”

Direct and true. And there’s a second in whom he regrets those words but still he’s blunt and she’ll have to learn how to deal with it. Because not everything will ever be as ‘sweet’ as wanting her to stay with him.

Reba blinks at his request, surprised by his boldness. She presses her lips together to hide a smile, though she can’t keep the corner of her mouth from twitching upwards. Francis wants her to stay, for them to be together again so soon. However, he admits one thing further and her brow furrows, not out of disdain, but out of sheer surprise. It’s quickly replaced by a deep flush and her fingers gently fold the napkin and put it off to the side to be thrown away. “I’d like that.” She finally nods, keeping her voice soft so that no one can hear them, “I’d like that quite a bit, Mr. D.”

He could bite her in front of everybody, let the others know to whom she belongs, how deep his marks can be and later lick her wounds. She accepts and he takes it as a personal victory, to lure her to his domain. He can’t avoid thinking as a hunter, as the master of her life because that’s what happened the moment they had sex that first time. Yours, he said. And his she is, to do as he pleases. “I’d like it more,” he states. Because he would, really, for reasons she can’t fathom.

The man finishes his meal as slowly as he can and takes a sip from his orange juice, never soda because it’s awful for his body. He takes a good care of it, of course. “It’s a big… house. But I never felt lonely.” He obviously prefers to be alone than remain with bad company, something that has been a constant through the years. He’s trying his best to continue their conversation even if he just wants to shut up and relax. This makes him nervous, but he must endure. For her.

Dolarhyde needs the woman. It’s a strange thing, the idea of being needed. Her doubts too often whisper that she’s nothing more than a burden, a hindrance to others save her mother and her closest friends, but to some extent, strange, quiet, beautiful Francis Dolarhyde needs her.

And already she’s begun to need him.

“I haven’t slept as well as I did when…when you stayed,” She grins shyly, teeth toying with her lower lip, “I’d like to visit your house. You’ll have to show me around, if you don’t mind, but I’d love to come over.”

“I will.” His bedroom and the main floor, never higher than that, especially the attic. The mansion is huge, two upper layers with fourteen rooms that face the gardens or the front of the house. It’s served the old people well, and his grandmother had a good monthly income taking those residents. But it’s all gone. The house is cold and empty being Dolarhyde its only inhabitant, and he feels at ease between its walls. And haunted sometimes. “It’s not… too difficult to get used to it. When I was a boy I thought that my grandmother’s house was a country, and that if… I left it, I’d get lost.” He looks back at her, empty stare, blank face. “Things can change their dimension when… you grow older.”

The beatings no longer hit his back, the yelling and degrading words no longer heard in the corridors of the mansion, the dirty glares and the disturbing glances thrown towards his direction due to his deformity no longer visible. He wonders how the blind woman’s childhood could have been like, if she suffered something akin to him. Probably not. She’s kind, and she’s been loved.

Reba grins at the thought of him as a little boy, wide eyed and brimming with imagination. “I think we would have been very good friends, then,” She leans forward almost conspiratorially, “We had a little creek behind my house and I used to pretend my dog and I were explorers, that the creek was a great river and the couple of trees were some vast, magical forest.” Her face scrunches up in amusement, a soft laugh following as she holds out a hand and points to a slim, pale scar.

“Tripped on the rocks one time and cut my hand open. Probably half scared by parents to death, but my dog kept barking until they ran out.” She sighs, still smiling, “I loved that dog. He loved everyone and everything, but I think he loved me most of all.” **_I would have been your friend_**. “If I went back now, I’m sure it’s just a boring little creek, but when I was a kid, it was an adventure every afternoon.”

He imagines her hand covered in blood and looks at it, noticing a faint scar there that has vanished gradually as she grew up. She had a pet and he imagines himself staring at it as if it was an enemy, because no one would be allowed to snatch her affection from him. No one, human or not. She’s his, his, his. “What was your… dog’s name?” he inquiries.

Face scrunches in amusement before she leans forward to quietly murmur, “Kermit, like the frog. I was a big fan when I was a kid.” Reba determines she likes feeding him tiny, useless little details about her life because he seems to want them, the sorts of facts that would bore most people to tears. He doesn’t offer any in return, not unless she presses him, but Reba’s learned quickly that where her life is marked with moments of shining, golden happiness and laughter, his has seemed hollow.

Kermit the frog. He has faint memories of that character because rare were the days when he could watch cartoons or children shows because the elderly were always the owners of the remote and the TV was off limits. And she had access to it, even if she couldn’t see the puppet. Once more, he’s proven that she had a happy childhood, a completely normal and enjoyable past. So distant from his reality.

Reba forces herself to inhale, not to grow too visibly excited. She can grin bright and bold, laugh into her hand when she’s back alone in her room, “We could make dinner together again, if you’d like.” Reba wonders if she’s been talking too much, probably overwhelming him with countless facts about her childhood, and smiles sheepishly. “How much longer do we have for lunch? I don’t want to hold you up or…or bore you talking about my dog, D,” The smile softens, “I’m excited for after work, though.”

He looks down at his wristwatch. “Five minutes. We should get going.”

Without hinting it, Dolarhyde stands up and takes her hand to rest on his arm to go back to the dark room. He avoids the stares, the whispered words and focuses on her safety above everything. She looks so small and yet is so strong, so much that she could move mountains with her will to live.

Caught off guard by his gesture to lead her, given that she had assumed there’d be far too many people around for him to feel comfortable, Reba gently takes his arm. He’s getting good at this, at helping her along, and she resists the urge to lean her head against his arm. He’s tall, Francis, and she feels so small against him but not intimidated like she once was. For all his height and strength, he’s gentle with her, tender even, and she flushes as she considers she may discover more of that gentleness tonight.

Dolarhyde opens the dark room’s door and looks at the end of the corridor to check if there’s no one watching before cupping her face with both palms. His lips descend on her mouth and he closes his eyes. This will probably end up in being the extra bit he needs to improve his day and look forward to see her again at the end of the day. “I have to go,” he whispers against her skin before a final chaste kiss. The sounds of his steps fade in the distance as he returns to his office.

“Thank you.” She smiles and turns to him as they reach the darkroom, but then his hands are cupping her face and before she knows what’s happening, he’s kissing her. Reba hums quietly, fingers reaching out to rest against his chest as she gladly returns the motion. “I’ll see you after work, D,” she murmurs, finding she wants more of his lips, and his footsteps can be heard vanishing without another word. Once she’s certain he’s gone, Reba breaks into a grin and presses the back of her hand to her mouth, silencing a bright pelt of laughter. He likes, he really does like her.

And a new tape is waiting for him. Digitalized, ready to watch. He opens the file with high expectations only to find that it’s just another TV show that needs a basic editing. With disappointment, the man opens one of the many editing programs and begins with extracting the pieces that will end up being part of the final product.

_She’s boring. Fuck her and get rid of her._

There He is again. It was too soon for Dolarhyde to believe that things would go smoothly.

_Or are you intending to keep her? If that’s your plan, give her to me. She’ll be a good sacrifice._

The man covers his eyes with his palm, resting his elbow on the table. She has to be offered to Him, but by doing so, he will never touch her again, kiss her, see her smile, hear her voice. Live a life he could have never dreamed of without her. Dolarhyde closes his eyes and clenches his jaw. A headache hits him.

_Such a good specimen._

She’s a woman. A living one. She likes him. She has made him moan in her bed. She worshiped his body and said she’s interested in what he has to say. She’s more than a piece of meat to corrupt and he can’t allow that to happen.

_And you think you’ll stop me, you filth?_

He mumbles something and returns to editing, trying to brush those thoughts away. In this maze that is known to be his brain, the man and the beast are having a fight for supremacy. To conquer one over the other and the battle’s almost lost. But he fights. And taking her to his house is the ultimate test he must go through to prove himself stronger than the Dragon. He’s requested to stay after his shift and he declines it politely, stating that he’ll go back to work tomorrow an hour earlier than everybody else to finish his job. His supervisor accepts the deal because the man has never given him troubles. But of course, he can see in the other man’s face that he’s puzzled about that request.

Dolarhyde waits at the entrance for her and he looks at his wristwatch nervously. He hears the clicking of her white cane and turns around to greet her, but instead his nervousness wins. “I have… an extra jacket in the van. It will be cold,” he states, knowing that she’ll freeze during the ride. It’s a black one that used to belong to a WWII veteran that died at his grandmother’s house long ago. His entire wardrobe was sent to the Salvation Army except that coat because Francis liked to run his fingers over the bronze buttons and imagine they were made of gold.

The rest of the day can’t go quickly enough and when the app on her phone announces it’s nearly closing time, (after numerous times she’d excitedly used it to count down the hours,) Reba gathers her purse and cane. She smiles as she hears his voice, walking carefully towards him. “I don’t want to have to borrow your jacket again and have you freeze; I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give.” Reba wonders if he’s put the jacket in the van for her. It’s an overly romantic thought, yes, but it pushes her to slip her arm around his. “I’ll admit I’m very excited to see your house, D.” She takes a slow step forward, feeling for ice along the pavement. “I’m sure it must be a whole lot more interesting than mine.” A short pause. “If there’s no one around, I’d like to hold your hand if that’s alright. If there is, I don’t mind waiting until the van.”

Why something as small as holding someone’s hand can be so important to her? Where’s the catch? He does mind it because he doesn’t want assholes talking behind his back. But they will talk, anyways. They’re probably doing it as he thinks of this and without any other word, Dolarhyde’s large fingers are laced with hers as they slowly make their way to the van. Her hand is fairly cold in contrast with his ever warm one and he knows she will make a good use of the extra garment.

She bites the inside of her lip to hide her smile as his fingers curl around her own. Reba hadn’t expected him to be comfortable with the gesture and is more than pleased to see he’s gone out of his way for her. His hand is terribly large in comparison to her own, but warm and strong.

Once they reach the vehicle, Dolarhyde opens the back door to pick the green coat and places it around her shoulders before closing the back door once more with a heavy ‘thump’. Reba carefully gets into his van, fingers reaching out to clutch at the now familiar chair and slips into it. She blinks in surprise as the jacket thumps over her shoulders, but grins and pulls it tighter around her. It’s heavy and she feels the edge of it, deciding it must be wool. It’s either terribly expensive or terribly old then, perhaps the latter judging by the smell of the slight must, but within a few moments she’s warmer.

The man rests his palm against her cheek to check her temperature and she’s fine, so there’s no need to offer her a scarf as well. She is and lifts her hand to take it for a moment, turning his palm towards her and kissing his fingertips. “Thank you,” She murmurs, features bright with obvious affection, “That’s very considerate of you, Francis.”

Her well being has become something akin to something that comes naturally in such a short time, but not one he finds annoying at all. Spoiling her in the limited ways he can do it feels good, because his life has been void of having someone to care about and feel fulfilled in regards of that action. “If you’re cold, just say it and I’ll turn on the heater.”

Dolarhyde turns on the engine of the van and off they go, heading towards the entrance. There’s a line and some of the other employees are honking their horns because apparently some idiot won’t have the balls to get into the highway. And so, a car approaches them and the copilot opens his window to knock on the killer’s.

“Hey, D, is Reba with you?”

It’s easy to figure out the man’s irritation by his face. First, they called him ’D’, which he hates. Second, they aren’t interested in him but his woman. Dolarhyde opens the window. “Yes.”

“Hey, Reba!” the man calls. His name is Ralph, no one, really, at least nobody that particularly bothers him.

She smiles contentedly as they wait, guessing there must be a line out of the parking lot, and furrows her brow as she hears a familiar voice. “Is that-?” The smile instantly fades and Reba shifts her weight in her seat, forcing herself to adopt a polite, albeit small, smile. “Hello, Ralph.”

He’d given her a ride home once, when the bus was late and it was cold. She had been grateful at first, both for the warmth of the car and the gesture of kindness given how new she was to Gateway, but that had swiftly faded. He had been polite for the first few moments but had quickly drifted into that innuendo laced, asking sort of voice men adopted when they were hoping for a hookup. Reba loathed that and loved Francis all the more for not having an ounce of it. She had told him that when he had driven him home, but had quickly forgotten it after he had lingered far too long in her doorway clearly hoping to be invited in.

“I have tickets for Bon Iver this Saturday. I had to beg for these 'cause it’s a very intimate thing, ya know. Wanna come?”

The grip on the van’s wheel is tighter and Dolarhyde looks at the front, as if he was invisible between Reba and Ralph, because truly, he is. She has showed to him that he’s somehow special but of course, how could he compete with a normal man? And the word 'intimate’ makes the hairs at his nape stand. Fury runs in his veins, but he keeps his exterior cool. As much as possible.

“I-,” She works hard to mask her annoyance, “That’s very kind of you, but I have plans.” She smiles again and thinks of poor Francis. “Maybe you could ask Cyndi to go? She’s a huge fan and she’d love to see him play.” Reba takes a hand and nudges Francis in his ribs, eager for him to pull away. As the window goes up, she breathes with relief.  “I don’t have any plans,” She confesses immediately, “not unless you want to do something. I just…he’s a creep,” Reba shifts her in seat, unable to keep her frustration from her features. “He gave me a ride home once, expected something a little more than gratitude. He didn’t get it and I try and avoid him if I can.” She bites the inside of her lip, reaching over to rest a hand on his thigh. “I’m sorry, Francis, that…that was insufferably rude.”

The woman rejects his invitation but that means nothing for Dolarhyde. The fact that he had the guts to ask her in front of him is unforgivable and nothing would please him more than to snap his neck in two for his impertinence. But then her admittance that she does not want to see him relaxes the situation a little bit. “Did he… try to touch you?” he asks, because Ralph has officially entered his black list.

She fidgets in her seat, fingers clutching tight at the handles of her purse. Reba sets her jaw, swallowing hard and offers a faint, tired smile. “He waited on my doorstep like some lost puppy, waiting for me to invite him in. That’s how it goes most of the time with men. They do something considerate and expect me on my knees in return.” Her voice grows quiet with a distant bitterness now. It’s a common enough experience for her, one she loathes, “Men pity me, most of the time. He did. He-,” She sighs again, shifting her weight, “hugged me and his hands went where I didn’t want them. I don’t know why the hell he’d think I wouldn’t notice. Just because I’m blind doesn’t mean I can’t feel.”

So he touched her through deceit and pity and the man can only see red when he stares at Ralph, beside them. Yes, he will pay him a visit and have a conversation before the other man ‘decides’ to quit his job and leave town. Because no one, absolutely no one touches what is his, even if it was prior to his claiming of the woman. “Pig,” he shortly answers before clearing his throat.

Reba bites the inside of her lip, realizing how upset she is and works to calm herself, sucking in a breath of the cool air within the van. “Takes a whole lot of fucking nerve to go and ask me out after that, not to mention in front of you.”

She nestles beneath the jacket, features distant, tired, even. “I’m sorry he did that. I don’t even talk to him, D, don’t-, I avoid him as best I can.” Reba slowly reaches over to find his hand at his side and squeezes it lightly, “He’s not a gentleman like you. Sometimes I think you must be the last gentleman on earth, D. You’ve…you’ve never, not once, taken advantage of the fact that I obviously can’t see a thing. That makes you really, really rare, you know? Makes you special.”

“Don’t apologize. It wasn’t your fault.” Dolarhyde squeezes her hand back as gently as possible considering how furious he is inside. “He won’t touch you again.” And he’ll make himself sure of it, no doubt. Because tainting Reba’s purity with his filthy hands is not negotiable. The killer is the only one who can enjoy the joys of the flesh with her, and it seems like he’ll have to begin to state that point clearly for the rest. He’d have wanted to keep this secretly but it seems like there’s nothing to be done about it.

Reba’s lips part at his quiet words and as he lays a hand over her hand, she notices it’s trembling. Reba isn’t certain whether it’s from restrained anger or frustration or-, or whatever may be causing it, but his touch soothes her. She finds she feels safer by his declaration, comforted somehow that Francis will keep him away, keep the pathetic, wandering hands away from her skin and body. No one’s ever touched her like him, she doesn’t want anyone to touch her but him. “You’ll keep me safe?” She offers a small smile and it seems at first like a joke, but there’s a measure of genuine honesty within it.

Yes, men look at her and treat her like a wounded bird, something to be protected and nurtured not because of its own merits, but because of its weakness. It makes her blood boil, that simpering pity, and the attempt to take advantage of it that too often follows. “Thank you,” She finally murmurs, and lifts his hand to kiss it gently before lowering it to allow him both hands to drive, “Means the world to me.”

After she lowers his hand, the man leaves the wheel for a moment to rest his large palm against her cheek. Dolarhyde leans closer and kisses her slowly, taking his good time for everybody to see and the kiss is deep, meaningful and possessive. His tongue slowly caresses her, wanting Reba to feel every ounce of his soul being poured on the action. A good way to settle what’s been wandering in everybody’s rumors regarding both. “There are… more important things that mean the world to me,” he whispers as he breaks the contact.

Not too far away from where they are, the screaming of a furious Dragon can be heard in the man’s ears. But he chooses to ignore it. This is too relevant right now to mind it. What he said wasn’t honest or true, but it felt like it was meant to be said in that precise moment. His world is Him, and no one else will take that place. But he owes her kindness, the same she bestows on him, and it seems proper for him to express it this way. Her eyes widen as his hand travels to cup her cheek, because she’s certain others must be able to see them through the car windows, and she’s very nearly frozen in shock as he leans in to kiss her. It’s enough to steal her breath away. Reba would have been startled by even a peck on the cheek, pleased by it, but this? There’s no pretending, no attempt at hiding after this. Moving past her initial surprise, falling fully into the kiss.

“Let’s go home,” he whispers against her lips before returning to his seat and drive out of the complex, leaving behind a good number of witnesses. A few 'o’s for mouths can be seen in some of the cars.

She leans forward and snags one last kiss against his upper lip, brushing against his scar, and smiles. “Please.”

The ride is quiet and as soon as they reach the Dolarhyde manor, Francis moves to her side to hold her hand while she uses her walking stick in the other one. “Twelve stair steps, then the main door. My house’s large. It was my grandmother’s and I’ll… let you discover it on your own.”

She considers how he said it on the drive, the offer to go home. Not to his home, no, but home. There’s a sense of unity in that, that his home is perhaps hers as well by extension, and Reba notes from now on to address her own house in the same manner. She extends her cane as they pull in, grateful for his guidance. Twelve steps. He’s counting, just for her. Reba’s features brighten all the more and she nods, carefully stepping up them before reaching a hand to the door. She feels glass there, small panes, and determines they must be the fancy stained glass sort common in old homes.

The man walks her to the base of the stairs and once they reach the door, he takes her hand to travel over the carved flowers and garlands over the wood. “This house has… been in my family since 1855.”

“1855?” She laughs, fingers following his and gliding over the carvings in the wood, “It must be very beautiful, then. It sounds very large, by the way our voices are carrying,” she observes as they step in. Reba carefully walks forward, hands trailing along the old wallpaper. “Do you have one of those, I don’t know, formal dining rooms? I always wanted one of those, but I don’t exactly have the guests necessary to fill them.” She laughs again, delighted with the prospect of exploring his home.

“There’s a dining-room… but it’s not as large as you imagine,” he comments as he takes off her coat and hangs it on the standing coat hanger. His palm goes to the back of her head, stroking her hair as she walks slowly around, following her like a shadow.

She smiles at the weight of his hand against her head, fingers tracing over the frame of a painting. “Still, I like to think dining rooms are exceptionally elegant no matter how small they are. We always ate in our kitchen, in a little table in the corner.” Reba laughs softly, face scrunching in amusement. “Guess that must be why I like them so much, huh?” If her own house occasionally feels lonely during the long nights that came before him, she wonders how isolated Francis must feel in a house as large as this.

She also wonders when the last time he had a guest must have been. She highly doubts anyone from Gateway, given how he seems to not particularly like anyone but her.

The idea that his house is a palace amuses him but truth to be told, back in the day, when the house was in its entire splendor, it must have been really beautiful. That is, way before her grandmother inherited it. There are pictures from those days but of course, they’ll never be enough. “The dinning-room’s table has the capacity for… ten people. There used to be a larger one but it changed after Grandmother decided on changing it by something more… functional. There are also some books and small porcelain sculptures. A… large crystal chandelier on top of the mahogany table, and the floors are wooden, like the rest of the house.” It’s practically just the way his grandmothers left it, save for a few changes such as a few film projectors here and there, and assorted books on the small table by one of the beautiful art-deco lamps.

It’s strange that He is silent, and perhaps He’s asleep in some sort of way, even if it sounds ridiculous because Dolarhyde always feels like he’s being judged by the Dragon. If he could only know everything’s in his head, his life would be so, so different…

“A crystal chandelier?” She grins at that, eyes fluttering shut as if she was trying to recapture a distant, fading memory of something akin to it. Reba finds she can’t recall what it looks like as her family didn’t have anywhere near the resources needed to purchase something like that, but she certainly knows that such is an indicator of status. Stupid, perhaps, because she can’t quite see the point in all that moment for something so utterly frivolous, but she keeps that thought to herself. Francis, after all, certainly hadn’t picked it out. “Is it one of those huge, fancy old tables? I…mahogany is that wood everyone goes crazy about, right? It’s expensive, I think.”

“A crystal… yes, mahogany,” he answers, taking in the questions she’s asking. He doesn’t appreciate it because it’s like she’s measuring his worth for his ‘fortune’ which is non-existent. The house demands a lot of money to maintain and that’s why some areas have been less well kept than those he uses most. But still, Reba asking so many details is his fault for providing them in the first place.

“Did your grandmother leave it to you? I hope you don’t mind my asking,” she inquiries.

The man watches her touch everything to map the house and watches her just in case she gets hurt. “My grandparents did. I was… the only heir.” Grandmother would have killed before leaving the house to Marian in her testament and being he the only blood link left, she decided to allow her late husband’s wish, who never met Francis but dreamed of a grandson his entire life. He was a decent man, so different from the rest of his family.

Nodding as she recalls how he mentions he’s an only child, Reba grins and inhales quietly enough he won’t notice. Yes, there’s a bit of must to the house, but there’s also his familiar cologne. Nothing a bit of weekend cleaning and a few open windows can’t freshen up. “Would you tell me about the layout of it all, D? It helps if I can know what to expect, the rooms and that sort of thing. And, you know, anything I’ll inevitably end up tripping on.”

What she wants to know, but isn’t quite ready to ask yet, is all the details of his home, the details that make it distinctly his. What paintings does he have hanging on the walls, what book is open and half read on his bedside table? Does he open his kitchen window to hear the birds in the morning? Reba wants to know, to understand, the infinite little details that are purely and wholly him, but she also recognizes that comes with time.

He’s suddenly afraid because he guesses that she’ll want to go everywhere and that’s not something he’ll allow. “There are two floors and the attic. Fourteen rooms and grand-…” He pauses and clears his throat. “The main bedroom, mine. The music room is on the first floor the dinning-room in the next room where we are right now. The stairs are at about twenty-five steps from here and there are… over twenty steps… I believe.”

A smile settles on her lips, twenty-five steps. He’s counting again for her, taking the time to make his home as comfortable as possible for her. He must want her here, want to make her familiar with the layout, which means he wants her to return. The thought warms her despite the slight chill of the room and she tilts her head lightly to the side, eyes widening. “Is this a mansion, Francis? I mean, I think you could fit my house in the broom closet from the way you describe it.” She grins, charmed by the idea, “Did you change anything since you inherited it?”

“It’s a simple house.” Well, that’s not truly right. “A big, old house,” he corrects himself, looking away, ashamed. “It… may have been a mansion back when it was built but I don’t see it that. I grew up in it.” When he was a child he thought the house was a palace, but then when he grew to know his grandmother better, he realized it was closer to a prison than a home. It’s strange though, that the man remained there, sleeping in the same bed he occupied since he was a boy until a few years ago when he started sleeping in Grandmother’s bed. It took him a while to get used to the idea.

He thinks of something else to add, something that may interest her. “I used to… sit and descend with my ass hitting each step as I went down. It hurt when I reached the base of the stairs but it was… fun.” He doesn’t mention though that the elderly living there would complain because the ‘thud-thud-thud-thud’ of his bum against the wooden stairs woke them up sometimes.

Laughing brightly at that, the woman shakes her head. “Sounds like the sort of thing kids love and adults worry horribly over.” She continues, finding the couch and finally the hearth above a fireplace, “I got a lamp from my grandma. It’s a very nice one, don’t misunderstand, but I think it didn’t really occur to her in the will that it wouldn’t exactly do much for me.”

A lamp. She was an idiot, really, for Reba would have never been able to admire it, with the exception of her fingers, or perhaps feel the warmth of the light. And it occurs to him that yes, anyone who wants to bestow her a gift to her must choose it carefully, something to awaken the rest of her senses. Which gives him an idea, but it must be kept secret. Dolarhyde follows her to fireplace and waits until she’s done. No one from Gateway has ever seen the house, not even from the outside and having a stranger is different. Though she isn’t a stranger any longer.

He watches her every move, how she reacts to his home and brushes some curls away from her face to get a better look at her angular, beautiful jaw. His fingertips run down to trace its shape until he finds her chin and tilts it up to appreciate her face in all its splendor. “Would you like a… drink?”

She pauses as his fingers trace down to her jaw and her eyes fall, half lidded, as if she was in a dream while Francis tilts her face fully to his. “I’d love one,” she murmurs softly and before he can more or say another word, Reba presses a quick kiss to his cheek. Finding a corner of the couch, she slips her jacket off and sits down, reaching to her flats. “Do you mind if I take these off? They’re not all that comfortable, not when I’m stick in them all day at work.” At mention of work it occurs to her that she’ll likely have to wear the same thing to work in the morning, but the worry passes nearly instantly. No one but Francis comes to see her, after all, and most would blame a repeated outfit on the blindness.

“It’s okay,” he answers as his large hands pick up the vermouth and gin bottles to pour their contents in two crystal glasses for their Margaritas. He watches her gracefully taking her flats off, her slender legs slightly showing as she raises her long skirt to do it. He’d love to kiss and bite them, see how much pain she could endure because she trusts him.

She moves over a bit, patting the cushion beside her. “It’s very kind of you to have me over, D.”

As soon as he’s done with his drinks, he reaches the spot beside her, opposite the fireplace and leaves his glass on the small coffee table behind the couch. With his free hand, he guides hers to hold the glass and only then, Dolarhyde picks his own. “I wanted you… here. It’s important.”

He must know if she’ll survive or not.

“I’m glad you invited me,” she replies softly and her free hand reaches out, finding his thigh. Reba leans closer then, resting her head against his shoulder. “I like getting to spend time with you, D. Spending the morning the other day with you was…-,” Was what? Perfect? She flushes a bit and sips her drink as an excuse to gather her thoughts. “Was the best time I’ve had in a very long time.” There, that should suffice, hint at all the words she wants to say. Yes, perfect would have worked best, been the most truthful. “I hope we get to spend more time together. I like being with you, I like it a lot.”

As soon as she approaches and rests her palm on his thigh, he begins to breathe faster, unable to stop the excitement in his body at her presence. The man allows her to curl against him and rests his arm on the back of the sofa to give her more space. “I… like your company… too.” But she’s here to prove himself, not because he likes her that much. He needs to know if he’s allowed to have a moment of normalcy, or what he believe must be. To keep her for himself alone. And so far, not a word has been heard from the attic.

Reba takes another small sip, the alcohol beginning to warm her, and closes her eyes as she nestles against him. “We sure must make an interesting pair, don’t we?” She smiles at the thought, a quiet laugh following. “Thank you for counting the steps for me. People don’t think to do that, to make it easy for me. I appreciate that gesture, it’s very courteous, very kind.” Her fingers absently trace small designs over his chest, appreciating the strength there.

She insists on his kindness and gentlemanly ways and he mentally laughs at it. The jokes about the 'if you ever knew who I am’ are old now, and the man’s getting used to the idea that he’s different because of her. She brings a different man out of him. And even if he denies it, it’s there, it’s real. “I don’t want you to break my crystal vases or china. That’s why I help you… mapping the house,” he teases, 'walking’ with his fingertips over her belly. The weight of her body feels good against his. She feels good.

Pleased that he seems to so enjoy her quick, playful gesture, she mentally notes to do it again, perhaps even venture so far as a nip against his shoulder. Reba grins now, arching both brows, “So that’s what you think I am, huh? Bull in a china shop?” She leans forward, carefully not to spill her drink, and catches the corner of his lips in a quick kiss to reassure him she’s only teasing. “You’re not far from the truth, but you have my word I’ll try and be on my best behavior.”

The man captures her mouth before Reba can lean back when she kisses the corner of his lips, her favorite spot, or so it seems. “I don’t want you to behave,” he teases, because he is slowly allowing himself to be bold with her bit by bit, even if there are still things he can’t control.

All of his memories, ninety percent of them painful ones, stored between the walls of the mansion. “Houses can shape you. Mine… has sharp edges.” He regrets what he said then, because he’s opening the door for her to ask about his childhood, his past, and he’s not ready to talk about it. Matter of fact, he doesn’t want to talk about it ever. It’d only draw suspicion to him in regards of the Dragon.

Her features soften at his words and she carefully sets her glass down on the floor, shifting closer, and presses a hand to his cheek. “But you don’t have sharp edges,” She murmurs softly, “Whatever…whatever this house did to you, whatever happened here, it doesn’t define you. I think you’re one of the kindest people I’ve ever met, D, and certainly more courteous than anyone I’ve ever met. Maybe-, maybe there’s a few cuts, but nothing that detracts from the whole of you.”

Oh, she’s so wrong. She’s bought the kind side of the man, diametrically opposite to the real man. Or is it all the other way around? Dolarhyde takes her hand off his cheek and stares at her lips as she speaks, as if he was restraining her from touching him so much. “I’ve been… shaped by many things. Not just his house.” His mother and father, step-siblings, the rejection of other boys and girls, the humiliation, so many things. “But… I…” He changes whenever she’s around. He wants to say it, but doing so would be reckless. Too open, too vulnerable. “Never mind.”

Her grin fades and even as he moves her hand, she takes her fingers to wrap lightly around his own. “Shaped isn’t everything. I…-,” Reba pauses, running her tongue over the corner of her lip in thought, “When I lost my sight, I was told over and over that there’d be nothing else. The doctors, of course, they were very kind, Thomistic, but I heard what my teachers and my relatives whispered when they thought I couldn’t hear. They figured that was about the end, that no matter what I did, I’d just be-, be the blind girl. Anything I managed to do was some sort inspirational commercial.” She snorts softly, moving her hand to lightly trail though her heart. “I hated it. I’m not anyone’s feel good story. I’m blind, yes, but I’m a hell of a lot more than that.”

She’s not useless and will never be, but that’s something she must be used to hear all the time by idiots who want to make her feel better, without really meaning it. Truth to be told, she’s more powerful than anyone he has ever met. She has the capacity to make him care about her and she’s quite understanding with him. That takes a lot of bravery and patience. “You’re… strong. I don’t have an ability like yours, to be normal despite everything.” He’s a monster, and people are right to run away from him. Normalcy is for others, not him.

Reba’s quiet for a long moment then, head resting back against his broad chest. The difference in their forms continues to excite her in truth, to run her hands over every inch of muscle and warm skin. “I think normal’s terribly boring,” She states finally, “Normal is…everywhere, everything, that’s what makes it normal. I don’t really care much for that. It’s safe, I suppose, familiar even, and that’s why people like it so much, but I’m not most people. You’re not either.” Reba shifts to press a soft kiss against his jaw, smiling. “I like what you are. You don’t have to be normal, not with me. I don’t want you to be anything you’re not.”

In a second, she tears down the entire idea by telling him that she likes him special. That word doesn’t have the best connotations in his mind because special means different and all he ever wanted his entire life was to fit somewhere. Later on he got over that stupid dream and focused on just breathing because he has to live. And life’s something that passes without anything interesting. Until he met Him. But now, here’s a woman who likes him for what he is or the fragments he allows her to see. His right hand moves up to stroke her hair then, as a gesture of appreciation and because he loves it, its texture and the unruly curls doing whatever they want despite her attempts to keep them in place. “We are a pair of extraordinary individuals, then.”

Ah, that warmth in his chest again.

She shifts her head a bit, pressing a small kiss to his shoulder, and smiles. “Your home must be very beautiful. Does mine seem boring in comparison?

Dolarhyde frowns. “It’s just a house.” He could never compare his mansion to her little house because the differences are abysmal. “I like your house more than mine.” That’s not true, but it’s a good lie just in case he needs to get her out of his own. It all depends on Him.

“It’s more than just a house,” She snorts lightly and pokes a rib, “It’s….you, it’s where you grew up, where all your memories are. I like you a lot and so I should probably like it, too.” Reba smirks at him, utterly unapologetic, and leans in to steal a small kiss from him. “My house is alright, I suppose. You can come over and see it for yourself whenever you want, you know.” She sits back with a quick wink, warm and happy and content. She wiggles her toes without thinking, grateful to be freed from the confines of her flats. “Does it ever get lonely, a big house like this? Sometimes my house feels that way, that... that I’m too small for it.

He did feel comfortable at her house, even if he only spent a night. Dolarhyde’s index rests on her jaw and strokes its angle, tracing it with his digit, as if he was drawing her. “I like your house.” Loneliness isn’t an appropriate word. Isolation is, though. “I am my best company.” The man pauses and frowns. “Or at least, I was.”

Things have changed the moment they talked for the first time at the cafeteria.

“A lot of people talk just to hear themselves. They think that if they fill the air with all sorts of words, it’ll distract from how boring they are, you know. I see through it.” Reba nods and moves closer still, until her forehead rests against his own. “I want to hear everything you have to say, I think it’s interesting and- and brilliant, all of it. I think you’re incredibly interesting, but not in that way that just causes curiosity. I-,” She blushes a bit, smiling gently. “I like getting to know you better.”

They are close, so close and he can feel the slight coldness coming from her skin. He’s a burning ember and she’s an ice-cube most of the time. Together they get very well. The man wraps his arms around her frame and presses her cheek against his chest, wanting to warm her at all cost. “I don’t agree with you but… if you want to hear me, so be it.” Could he speak of Him with her?

_Do it and you’re dead._

Dolarhyde inhales deeply and leans back on the couch to pull her closer and rest against him. “Would you have… liked to have siblings?”

She scrunches her face in thought, pleased by the closeness of their bodies. “I think my parents had enough stress with just me,” Reba smirks and laughs sheepishly, “It…I don’t know, maybe? I…I played by myself a lot of the time, made up adventures and stories, and I think it might have been nice to share them with someone else. Yeah, I guess I would have liked someone, a sister would have been nice.”

“Sometimes it’s bliss to not have siblings.” It was his fault that his mother’s husband lost the elections, after all. And his time at Marian’s house proved that he must be alone for the rest of his life.

It’s a thought that’s never really occurred to her. Francis is capable of asking all sorts of things she’s never considered before, open up truths and realizations so easily. She shifts to set her now empty glass down carefully on the floor, finding his arm and trailing down it to lace her fingers tightly with his. Lifting his hand to her mouth, she kisses it lightly and murmurs, “If I was ever lonely, I’m not now.”

Dolarhyde hums, satisfied with her comment and draws patterns on her arm as she curls closer towards him, taking his fingers. “Am I… good company?” he asks, truly clueless about human relationships. He knows her reply will be positive, and perhaps he should be more clearer.

She kisses him fully then, lips eagerly finding his, but its gentle still, tender. Eyes flutter shut as she leans back against him, entranced by his fingers gliding over her skin. In return, her free hand moves to trace over his leg, swirls and dips and tiny circles. “Good company?” Reba laughs in surprise, because of course he is, and then she pauses as she realizes he truly means it. He doesn’t know, has to ask in order to be certain. “You’re the best sort of company, Mr. D,” She replies firmly in return and lifts his hand to her mouth to kiss his knuckles, “You’re so smart and know so much about…about all sorts of things. I love hearing you talk about everything because you don’t see things the way other people do. When you talk I get to see things, too.”

“No one… ever considered that before.” Not in Gateway, nor anywhere in his life.  She just can’t stop praising him and making him feel like the eight wonder in the world and they’ve just known each other for what, three days tonight? It feels like an eternity. He makes a soft sound with his throat when her hand reaches his thigh because he still feels uneasy with her touches. It’s really bizarre to have a woman touching him so gently as if he was an Adonis. “You don’t need flattery to… win me over.” She really doesn’t. He’s… hers already.

She nods fervently and curls back against him all the more, sighing softly. “You’re exceptionally funny and you’re very kind. Do you know that? You’re very kind, Francis, and thoughtful. You do things for me know one else ever even thinks to.” Reba bites the corner of her lip, a slow smile spreading over her face. “I like every moment I get to spend with you.”

Fingertips glide over her cheek gently then, luxuriating in the softness of her skin. He leans forward to kiss her scar over her nose and then her eyelids, closing her eyes gently. “I want to do more… to please you.” That’s probably what he’s always wanted to do for someone he cares about and he believes Reba has won over that title. Special. She’s utterly special and sweet, and it’s impossible to not like her. He wonders how many men he’ll have to fight to keep her because yes, he has decided that he’ll keep her close, even if their relationship cannot be measured by conventional standards. “No limits.”


End file.
